Insomnia
by Damagoed
Summary: It all starts because Sherlock can't sleep. Let's take a walk through some private moments and some tales from the despatch box. Mostly John & Sherlock. But also Mycroft, Ghosts, Dreams and New Characters.
1. Insomnia

Sherlock is silently cursing the layout of 221b. He's lying on his bed, on top of the covers looking at the ceiling. Looking at the cracks around the light fitting, the cobweb in the corner. He can't sleep.

He can't sleep because he knows that three point five metres above him, two point two metres to the left, Doctor John Watson is also laying in bed. John is asleep. Sherlock knows this because he heard the gentle purring of John's snores when he tiptoed up the stairs tonight and listened at the door.

He can't sleep because he knows that John is wearing those cute pyjamas with the checked trousers and the long sleeved t-shirt. He knows that the t-shirt will be rucked up a little where John has wriggled in his sleep. Rucked up just enough that, if he were to go in to John's room he would be able to see a few inches of the exposed flesh of John's belly, with a trail of sandy hair leading down in to his trousers. And he knows the flesh would be warm and soft if he were to reach out and touch it.

He can't sleep because he knows from every sound, every slight movement or creak of the ceiling what John is doing, which way he is turning. Where exactly he is in relation to Sherlock.

Every night when he can't sleep he climbs the stairs to John's room. He stares at the door, listens to the soft sounds of John sleeping. Sometimes he hears the harsh sounds of John's nightmares, the sound of tears as he sleeps. But Sherlock never dares to open the door, to walk the short distance to John's bed and slip in beside him. Because he has deduced that John would think that was a lot not good.

Every night he walks back down to his own room. Every night. And he can't sleep.


	2. Comfort

The clock ticking by his bed tells him it is a little after three in the morning. A slow tick-tick, a fuse burning down the painful eternity before the explosion of dawn.

Sherlock is unable to lay there any longer. It would only be a couple of hours until he'd get up anyway, if he had managed to sleep. It's pointless, sleep will not come. Above him a slight creak of the ceiling tells him John has turned over in bed. Turned quickly. John is having a nightmare. He turns over again, the other way. Sherlock knows he will be covered in a sheen of sweat and in the deep recesses of his dream his shoulder will be bleeding and shattered. John will feel pain and fear in his dream. He will taste his own blood and death as he turns again and again.

Sherlock gets up. Wishing he knew how to stop John's nightmare. Wondering if he went in to John's room now and held him tightly and showed him it was just a dream if that would help, or if it would just make things worse. He makes tea. Sits on the sofa and sips.

The clock in the kitchen takes up the funeral pace of the one in Sherlock's bedroom. A mere three minutes have passed. Four minutes. Five Minutes. The world outside is still lit by street lamps and stars, the heavens taking over where the Sodium bulbs leave off. The universe is infinite and it doesn't really matter what revolves around what. All Sherlock wants to do is stop the planet and get off.

The door opens. John walks quietly in to the living room, holding his blanket in one hand, eyes red from the tears he has cried in his sleep. He looks very small and lost.

"I can't sleep." That is a lie. He can sleep, but not without the horrors in his head.

"Neither can I." That is another lie. Sherlock can sleep but he just doesn't want to.

They sit side by side on the sofa. The clock ticks, more gently now. It ticks a further ten minutes before Sherlock notices the solid, warm weight against his shoulder. John is asleep, his breathing soft and steady. Sherlock lifts his arm and pulls John a little closer, the smaller man sinks against him. Slowly Sherlock feels his own eyes closing. And somewhere deep down he knows that this is one of those things John will think is all fine.

And so they sleep.


	3. Morning

Sherlock had managed two hours sleep before he was woken up because his arm had gone numb. For the briefest of moments whilst the part of Sherlock's brain that could be considered normal was still in charge he thought he might have had a Stroke. Then the analytical part of his brain kicked back in and he realised he had lost all the feeling in his arm because John Watson had been sleeping on it. John was heavier than he looked.

Very carefully he slipped his dead arm out from behind John's back, flexing fingers that seemed to be made of Play-doh in the hope of getting the circulation back some time in the near future. John carried on sleeping, a peaceful expression smoothed across his face. Even more carefully he stood up, letting John move backwards until he was resting against the arm of the sofa. Sherlock moved silently away, as John burrowed up against the cushions, probably wondering where the warmth had gone.

It was nearly six in the morning. The Stars had been replaced with the glorious boiling pink and orange flames that heralded the dawn. The buildings of the city were glowing and the streets were beginning to fill with cars, people, the early morning crowds. Sherlock couldn't remember how many times he had watched this. Each and every time looking down from his window and seeing everything. Being able to look at the city coming to life and from the briefest of glances, knowing what was going to happen, as though the city and Sherlock Holmes were joined together. This was his moment, his own private ceremony; the dawn was for him alone. But he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to show John. Because maybe John would understand?

Part of him hated to wake him. But part of him couldn't do anything else.

"John?" He shook his shoulder gently.

"Uh?"

"John, wake up."

"Eh?" He buried himself deeper into the sofa.

"John. Please wake up. In need to show you something." John suddenly sat upright. Sherlock only just managed to avoid getting a mouthful of the top of John's head.

"What's the matter?" John had swung off the sofa. Ready for action.

"I wanted to show you... Look out of the window." Sherlock was feeling slightly foolish now, an emotion that was a rare visitor to planet Holmes.

John padded over to the window, stretching the stiffness from his muscles as he walked. He looked out of the window. There was silence. He didn't move. Sherlock couldn't even be sure either of them was still breathing.

John turned from the window, a huge smile on his face. A face that the fingers of dawn, Sherlock's dawn, were gently stroking.

"That's amazing. Brilliant!" he turned back to the window and the burning city.

They stood side by side, silently watching. Silently sharing. Eventually John turned slightly and looked up at the taller man.

"Sherlock? It really is all fine. Really." And then he turned his attention back to the window and the waking of the sleeping city.


	4. Night Terrors

Sometimes John Watson's night terrors get the better of him. When he was a child they had childish forms, ghosts, three eyed monsters, vampires, giant frogs. The products of childhood imagination and television. But as he got older and the innocence of childhood gave way to the true horrors of the adult world, the night terrors got worse. Dismembered corpses, the screaming , bleeding, dying refuse of 20 years of medicine and soldiering. The private fears of dying, pain, loneliness that are buried deep in the most secret heart of his mind.

When they come out to play at night, as has been the case for most of his life, John has to face them alone. His Mother, His Sympathetic roommate from medical school, even his Sister are no longer there with calming words and soothing strokes on his face. The price of being a grown up is that you stand alone in front of your nightmares.

He hears the footsteps on the stairs outside his room, just at that moment before he manages to wake up. That moment when he becomes aware that he is flailing on sheets soaked in his own sweat and sometimes, to his eternal shame, his own urine. When he becomes aware of the horror receding back into his head. Becomes aware that he has been screaming the name of some dead boy he couldn't save for ten minutes. Screaming at the darkness. Screaming at nothing.

He knows Sherlock is outside the door. He knows Sherlock will never open that door, walk the few paces to John's bed and hold onto him. Tell him the dreams can't hurt him. Smooth his sweaty hair from his face and dry his tears. He knows that is just not how Sherlock works. But he does know that Sherlock is there. He will stay crouched on the landing until he hears John's breathing shallow and calm. Until he knows John is asleep and safe once more. And somehow that helps. He is not alone.

So John can sleep.


	5. Blanket

When Sherlock had sat in Angelo's that first night and told John he wasn't interested in Women, in Men, in Variations Thereof, in Anything, in John, it had been the absolute truth. He really wasn't. That was not to say that was still the case. But Sherlock had absolutely no idea how to go about telling John he'd changed his mind. Well not changed. Evolved.

This time he was stretched out on the Sofa. 4 a.m. His brain churning through equations, waiting, wishing for the moment when his head would shut down and he could stop thinking. That sweet moment when the Holmes computer would finally turn itself off and he could sleep, just a little bit.

Sherlock never dreamt. Perhaps if he did, he would have regarded sleep as more than an annoying by-product of his body's need to function. He may even have dreamed about John Watson. But as it stood there was no incentive but exhaustion for him to sleep.

John had another nightmare. So bad that this time just as he woke he couldn't quite determine where reality began and sleep ended. Couldn't quite determine if he was really lying in a rapidly growing pool of his own blood and innards, or if he was just lying on sheets soaked with his own sweat and piss. Not for the first time he thought about how waking up like that would go over with Sarah. Would she understand? Would she be okay with the revelation that calm, tough, controlled John Watson was actually a frightened little boy who just wanted someone to tell him it was all going to be better and check under his bed for monsters? Probably not.

Sherlock pretended to be asleep. He knew from the way John had tiptoed down the stairs and into the shower what had happened. The way John had crept across the living room into the kitchen and put something in the Washing Machine. But this was one of those times, like the moment he realised John had shot that Cab Driver through the heart, when Sherlock decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

He heard John about to tiptoe back up the stairs when there was a pause. Moments later Sherlock felt himself being gently covered with a blanket. And the footsteps moved away, slightly uneven- John's leg always bothered him when he dreamt.

And Sherlock was alone again except for a blanket that smelled faintly of John Watson's aftershave. Waiting to sleep.


	6. All Fine

John is in to his third nightmare in two hours. Sherlock sits, hugging his pyjama'd knees on the flight of stairs leading up to John's room. He sits in silence, listening, barely breathing, hearing every turn John makes on the bed, every small cry, every sharp intake of breath. Somehow, he knows this is the worst dream John has had in a very long time.

During the day, when he's running alongside Sherlock the Nightmares, the childhood monsters, the adult insecurities are just not fast enough. But at night, when he's alone in the stillness of sleep, they catch up.

Finally Sherlock hears John shout out. A sobbing, raw voice that doesn't sound like John at all. Once he asked him a question, to which this Night time scream was his answer.

"Oh God Please let me live." And Sherlock knows what John is dreaming about. And he knows he just has to open the door and stop it.

John is curled up in a ball, his arms protectively over his head. His t-shirt is stuck to his body with sweat, hair plastered to his scalp as though he had just stepped out of the shower. As Sherlock puts his arms around him he can hear, can feel, John's heart pounding against his ribs, as he heaves in sobbing breaths of air.

"John? John it's okay. It was just a bad dream." John uncurls and looks up at Sherlock, his eyes still not completely focussed, still trying to find reality in the ruins of his nightmare. Slowly he swallows and nods and then looks down, his eyes suddenly becoming wide with embarrassment.

"Why don't you go and have a Shower?"

John finishes his shower, washing the scent of his dreams away and replacing it with the alleged scent of rainforest. As he leaves the bathroom his toe bumps something soft on the floor. Clean pyjama trousers, the ones with the smiley faces.

Sherlock is stretched out on the sofa, still and pale like an Elgin marble.

"Erm... thank you?" John is still embarrassed, wondering what can of deductive worms the Holmes brain is currently opening about him.

"It all fine John, everything, it's all fine." Sherlock smiles and closes his eyes. "Get some sleep."


	7. Moth to the Flame

John Watson can't sleep. He knows that in the room below him Sherlock Holmes is laying stretched out on his bed, eyes closed, but wide awake.

He can't sleep because he knows Sherlock will be wearing those elegant green silk pyjama trousers and his grey silk robe. John knows the silk will be draped over Sherlock's delicate bones like a shroud.

Tonight John can't sleep, not because of the terrors of his dreams. Tonight John can't sleep because of the terror of finding himself awake and alone in his little attic room. The three metres or so that separate him and Sherlock might as well be the distance from the beginning to the end of time. Because it is a distance John can never span.

John can't sleep because he knows that Sherlock is the burning bright flame and he is the dull brown moth fluttering around it. Eventually he will be burnt up in the flame's brilliance. But it will all be worth it, if just for a brief time he can reach out and touch.

He can't sleep because he knows that what he is thinking is, by his own standards, seriously not good.

Every night when John Watson can't sleep he tries to remember what his life was like before he met Sherlock. And every time he remembers the black world of despair, with no flame to guide him, no chance of ever being burnt by the light because there was only darkness. Every time he remembers, and slowly he falls asleep.


	8. Another Holmes

Too much alcohol was never a great idea in John Watson's book. It tended to make him sentimental and confused. And it tended to cloud his dreams with an extra air of mystery. Like a fog. The kind of fog of Victorian London where every street corner and alleyway concealed a killer.

Sometimes when he'd had too much whisky he would run through streets of cobblestones shrouded in cloudy fog, imagining himself to be some other person, from some other time. A time where Hansom cabs and gaslights filled the streets of the city and everywhere smelt of death.

But always in these nightmares Sherlock was by his side. Another Sherlock. Not the Sherlock of his waking hours, the Sherlock of his dreams. The mind was the same, the mannerisms, the intellect. But this Sherlock was something else. Something that perhaps came from deep inside John Watson. A Sherlock that laughed in Staccato shrieks and moved with the grace of a spider.

John sat up in his bed. The face of a stranger imprinted on his mind. Someone who had just shouted his name, Shouted out "John" in the midst of some hallucination. He looked around his empty room, wiping the sleep and confusion from his eyes.

As he opened the door he saw Sherlock, His Sherlock, leaning against the wall. Knees drawn up to his chest. John didn't need to say anything, but nodded towards the bed, hoping Sherlock would understand.

He was about to speak when Sherlock brought his fingers to his lips in a gesture that reminded him of the other Sherlock.

"What have you to confess now John?"

"Nothing. It's all fine. Brilliant even." And so they both slept.


	9. Witness

John could hear a heartbeat in his ear. He was just at the point between sleep and awake, that lovely warm cocoon where everything seems dreamy and perfect. His head was leant back against something unfamiliar. Something that was not his pillow. Someone. John smiled and leant back a little further into the warmth, leant a little further back to hear the soft thump-thump. An arm hugged him a little tighter, its gentle squeeze massaging him back to sleep.

Sherlock could feel John waking up against him. The barely perceptible change in his breathing, the slow tensing of muscles and sinew, the change in his eye movements under closed lids. No one else would have noticed any of it. But Sherlock had spent all night observing John Watson as he slept. For the first thirty minutes he told himself it was merely an experiment. A study in his flatmate's sleeping patterns. After an hour he stopped kidding himself. This was something else. Something so completely else that Sherlock didn't even know if there was a word for it. Something Sherlock didn't know.

John Watson was beautiful when he slept. Not beautiful in the sense the rest of the world used the word. He was beautiful in the way that he relaxed against Sherlock's chest and trusted him to let him sleep. Trusted Sherlock to stop the nightmares. Trusted Sherlock enough to show him his battered, bleeding, damaged soul and say this is who I am, this is the worst of me, and I want to you to know.

It would have been very easy to fall asleep with him. To drink in the smell of his hair, to stroke his soft skin and lull to his slow rhythmic breathing. It would have been so very easy.

But Sherlock wasn't sure he would ever be allowed to witness something so beautiful ever again. So he stayed awake.


	10. Drive Time

John was never good at long car journeys. After about twenty minutes his head would begin to droop and he'd wake up an hour later with his face smacking against the window as the car went round a corner. He blamed his mother, who used to take him out for car rides when he wouldn't sleep as a baby.

This time he was determined not to fall asleep in a squad car that contained Detective Inspector LeStrade, Sgt Donovan, Dr Anderson and Sherlock. Because that would just be the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to him. Only they got stuck in traffic coming back from Sevenoaks and John slowly began to drift off.

Anderson was in the front, safely away from Sherlock. Donovan was driving and John was sandwiched in the back between what seemed like several acres of Detective Inspector on one side, and a xylophone wearing an overcoat on the other. John had to go in the middle, because he was short, so Donovan could see out of the rear view mirror. So she said.

He felt his eyes beginning to close, three or four times and tried to snap himself back awake. But slowly the warmth in the car and the purr of the engine carried him off. Out for the count.

Sherlock noticed John Watson's head begin to nod. It bounced painfully every time the car hit a bump in the road. He was going to have a sore neck when he woke up. In the mirror Sherlock could see Anderson smirking at the unconscious John Watson, passed out like a little boy after an exciting day out. No doubt Anderson would enjoy telling everyone at the Yard about it.

Sherlock looked down thoughtfully for a moment and then put his arm around John's shoulders and pulled him close so his head was resting on Sherlock's chest. Anderson's eyes widened in the mirror. That would give him something else to talk about.

LeStrade turned his head to Sherlock a question about to tumble out into the quiet of the backseat.

"Shush. He's sleeping."


	11. Past Forgetting

Sherlock could go for a week without sleeping properly. He would go to his bed, and lay awake. He would sometimes go to John's bed and lay awake. But he wouldn't sleep. When his body finally decided it was time for him to take a nap and managed to override the considerable resistance from his brain in the matter he would crash out. Sometimes for days.

John had learnt to spot the signs early on. The slight lapses in concentration. The almost imperceptible slowing down of his movements. Even the occasional lisp that put in an appearance. John could spot them all. And then when Sherlock passed out in some wildly inappropriate place, like the shower, or the kitchen floor, or the stairs, or the mortuary at St. Bart's, John would deal with it. John could deal with anything.

Then it would be John's turn to stay awake. To keep vigil. To watch the slow rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. And gaze in wonder at the peaceful, uncomplicated expression on his face. To wonder what, if anything he was dreaming about. To keep him safe.

Sherlock never remembered his dreams. If asked he would say he didn't dream. Didn't need to. Dreaming was boring and a waste of brain power. But if he did remember, he might remember running through gas- lit streets with someone dependable and solid but who wasn't quite John Watson at his side, he might remember his nicotine patches replaced with needles and his London shrouded in fog. Only Sherlock didn't dream. So he never remembered.


	12. Sleeping Arrangments

As usual John was pretending that everything was all fine. But it wasn't. It was one thing to end up being comforted in the middle of the night when you had woken from a dream so bad you thought you were dead and in hell. It was one thing to fall asleep against someone watching TV or in the back of a car. It was entirely another thing to get into bed with someone. To actually choose to sleep next to them. Sleep with them.

Sherlock had never seen John quite so embarrassed as when the charming young lady with the red hair showed them to their room. And John had seen one, king-sized four poster bed sat in the middle of it. He had gone crimson. Unable even to utter that there must have been some sort of mistake. The girl smiled as she left them.

Sherlock had lain down on the bed. Not intending to sleep. Just to relax his body and go over a few conundrums in his head. But John, he knew, was nearly dead on his feet.

"John just get in to bed. I am perfectly capable of thinking in the dark. Go to sleep or you will be no use to anyone tomorrow." And John had got in. And had fallen asleep laying right on the edge of the mattress as far away from Sherlock as he could possibly get.

Sherlock smiled. It was so amusing the way everyone, even John sometimes, was so caught up in what other people might think, might say, that they went to such lengths to be ordinary. To hide their basic desires in a web of deceit. It was very boring.

John had been asleep for fifteen minutes when Sherlock felt the mattress shift a little and John move away from the edge. Another ten minutes passed before Sherlock felt John's short, soft hair brush against his arm and John rolled into Sherlock's side, a smile playing across his sleeping features.

Very gently he stroked John's cheek. Gently so he wouldn't wake up. Because if John, in his sleep, was able to express something of his inner desires. Sherlock, who was still awake, could extend him the same courtesy.


	13. Being Frank

Sherlock never had a teddy bear. Mummy thought they were common. And the one time he had asked for one, Mycroft had laughed at him. Sherlock had made do with an old fur muffler of Mummy's that he had made eyes out of felt for. Until Mycroft had found it and taken it away. For his own good Mycroft said. Because getting attached to things was a good way of dulling the intellect.

From birth until the age of twenty-four John Watson had been accompanied on most of his travels by a green cuddly Hippo called Frank. Frank was his lucky Hippo. But John had decided Frank was probably not cut out for army life, and he had been left in the custody of John's Sister, Harry. When John had been brought home from Afghanistan with holes in him, Harry had bought him clean pyjamas and chocolates and his Hippo, berating him that if he had his lucky Hippo with him he probably wouldn't have got shot in the first place. Frank kept quiet, Harry said quite enough for the both of them.

Frank now resided in what Harry referred to as "John's box of precious things" his medals, photographs, swimming certificates, prefect's badge, school tie. John wasn't interested in most of it. But every so often he would take Frank out and let him know how everything was going. frank never said much. But he understood.

Sherlock loved the way John's skin felt pushed up against him. He loved the softness of the hair on John's chest and belly. He loved that John was small, but solid, like he always imagined his teddy bear would be. So he could hold John tightly and feel his warmth. He only ever hugged John like that when he was quite certain John would not wake up. Telling your flatmate you were hugging him because he reminded you of a teddy bear you never had was probably something not even Sociopaths should do.


	14. Hypothermia

John was alone in the flat. Sherlock was out chasing up some lead or other. He had, as nicely as Sherlock ever got, told John he would only slow him down. The curse of short legs. Sherlock had suggested John get an early night. And John had tried. Sat on his bed with his laptop for a while blogging about nothing.

Had a chat with the Hippo.

Then had a chat with the Skull.

Then introduced the Skull to the Hippo. They seemed to enjoy each other's company, Frank had always liked meeting new people and the Skull didn't get out as much any more. John left them to it.

He made tea, ate a whole packet of Jaffa Cakes, the diet blown for another week.

Couldn't sleep. Bored.

So he waited for Sherlock to come back. To come home. The clock mocked him from the wall every time he looked at it. He curled up on the sofa with his blanket, the slightly tatty grey woollen blanket that had been with him through his entire army career. The one that still smelt faintly of the desert.

Sherlock finally returned at two in the morning. Soaked to the bone and beyond. He smelt like the river, muddy and damp. He was shaking, his teeth chattering together, as the adrenaline left him and the cold washed in. Without questioning, John had been on his feet and stripped Sherlock of his dripping clothes before wrapping him tightly in the blanket.

"What is it with the medical profession and their absolute faith in blankets?" Sherlock had clicked through blue lips.

"There's a lot to be said for the healing power of the blanket. " And John steered his borderline hypothermic flatmate to his bed. "Especially that one."

"Did you wait up for me?"

"No. I just couldn't sleep."

"You waited up."

"Shut up." Sherlock looked up at him from the bed.

"John, I'm still cold. Really cold. Can you warm me up?"

And realising it was his Hippocratic duty, John stripped off his t-shirt and pyjama trousers and climbed in.


	15. The Naked Light of Day

The first fingers of daylight pushed their way through the chink in the curtains to where John Watson lay on his back. Pushed their way past sleep so John half opened his eyes. Continued to massage him awake. He turned, feeling Sherlock's arm draped loosely across his chest.

Sherlock's arm!

John's eyes snapped open and he jumped from the bed, naked and confused and the carefully constructed, and tissue thin, veil of John's personal temple was rent neatly in two.

Him. Sherlock. Bed. Naked.

He looked down at himself. Then across the room to where Sherlock lay. Naked and asleep. The self recriminations had already started in John's head. Because it didn't matter that they had actually done nothing. What mattered was that John had thoroughly intended to do something.

When he had held his shivering flatmate's elegant bones in his arms and had told himself he was treating him for hypothermia by warming him up. When he had stroked Sherlock's hair and murmured in his ear that it would all be fine and he'd warm up soon. When he'd let Sherlock cling on to him, as though he was still drowning in the river he'd crawled out of earlier. When he'd done all of that he had thoroughly intended to do something else.

And now Sherlock was sleeping. Unaware of what John had nearly done to him. And daylight's fingers were now glancing across Sherlock's face and body, gilding his flesh and transforming him into the most beautiful work of art John had ever seen. John's breath hitched, a little too loudly and Sherlock opened his eyes.

Sherlock saw John. Naked. Out of Bed. Beautiful. The sun behind him giving him a halo of morning light. Like an angel. Sherlock's angel.

"John?" Here it comes. The cutting deduction. John looked at the floor. "John, I'm still cold. Please come back to bed."


	16. First Kiss

John reached out his hand to touch Sherlock's face, moving his gentle Surgeon's fingers over the sculpted cheekbones and the elegant jaw line. Allowing them to move lower as he smoothed over the long neck and down to the naked shoulders, the bones moving under the skin like porcelain under silk. John wanted Sherlock so much. And it hurt.

Sherlock's hands were by his sides. He wanted to touch John. To run his fingers across John's chest. To grasp hold of the tattered remains of the skin on his shoulder. To kiss his scars. To caress the reassuring solidity of John's body. Only he didn't know what to do. And it hurt.

John looked at the searching expression deep at the back of Sherlock's eyes and wondered why he was standing so still. Would he ever regard John as anything more than an interesting experiment? Is that what the question in those steel lights was? Was there anything more?

Sherlock looked at John's face, deep into his eyes. Words failing him at what he saw there. A knowledge that only a man who had seen death and had turned to face it could possess. Something that ran so deep into the dark blue-green that it left him unable to think, unable to move. Totally in awe. And would a man who had seen everything of the human heart and soul ever really be interested in him? Or was Sherlock nothing more than a convenient anaesthetic for John's pain?

John stood on tiptoe to reach Sherlock's lips. He closed his eyes, shutting off the private turmoil to public scrutiny. And kissed.

Sherlock stooped his head down a little. Closing his eyes and shutting off the uplink to the outside world that fed his doubts. And kissed.

John and Sherlock stood together in the living room of 221b Baker Street. And kissed.


	17. Addictions

Sherlock had a history of drug taking. There had been the casual relationship with alcohol at school. The only decent thing that had come out of that was how very annoyed Mycroft had been when he had collected a drunk and spectacularly disorderly sixteen-year-old Sherlock from the local police station and he had then vomited an entire bottle of Malibu over the backseat of the car. Mycroft still shuddered at the smell of coconut.

Then there had been marijuana at University, which whilst it made his fellow students mellow and lethargic had simply fuzzed Sherlock's brain and annoyed him. Then came the Cocaine, which made him more arrogant, more ready to take on everyone. More trouble.

And eventually the Heroin. The Heroin was the best. It made him feel every nerve of his body in exquisite detail, made him see everything with a clarity that shone bright light on the world. He could actually feel his brain. Know what it was capable of. Know what he could become.

And there were the come downs, those black crashes into hell that left him screaming and itching and sobbing. And the time when Mycroft locked him in his room and left him in there for three days, shouting and puking and sweating whilst the drugs left his system. Sherlock beat his head against the door until he bled and eventually sat against it in his filthy clothes, crying and begging Mycroft to open the door. Sherlock never saw Mycroft sat on the other side of the door, quietly sobbing. If the cold turkey was Sherlock's punishment for taking the drugs, having to listen whilst he did it was Mycroft's punishment for not stopping him in the first place.

And then there was John Watson. Sherlock never thought he would find anything to compare to the highs of all the other drugs he had taken. Never find anything to replace the feeling of ascension you got from a good hit of heroin. Until that one moment when John kissed him. And suddenly there was that golden power running through his veins and his brain burst into painfully sharp focus. His eyes snapped open and he looked down.

John Watson didn't understand why Sherlock suddenly held on to him as though he was falling. And, although he saw the look of amazed triumph in the Steel eyes, he wasn't quite sure if it was his kiss that put it there. He looked at the blown pupils and the veins standing out on Sherlock's neck and wondered what was going on in that complicated head.

"Please don't ever leave John."

"I'm not going any where." And he held on to Sherlock as tightly as he could.


	18. Temper, Temper

John Watson's biggest fault was his temper. To look at him you would never have guessed that underneath his seemingly gentle exterior lurked a foul mood just waiting to be released. Most of the time he managed to keep a good hold of it. The army had taught him that. But every so often, usually when he hadn't eaten or slept or had just discovered someone's foot in the fridge. John would lose it. Totally and utterly.

The first time Sherlock witnessed it he had been surprised. Very surprised. Because that was one thing he would never have deduced about John. It would start with John clenching and unclenching his fists. The barely noticeable squaring of his shoulders and the clenching of his jaw. The sure signs that Doctor Watson was about to explode.

And when he blew his stack that first time, it had been Mycroft Holmes on the receiving end of it all. Which of course just made it all the more delicious to Sherlock. John had hurled abuse at Sherlock's stunned elder brother for five minutes. Five minutes of very eloquent criticism on the intrusive surveillance Mycroft had decided to put them under, interspersed with a select choice of insults, most of which brought into question Mycroft's parentage. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain a little voice was telling him that by default John was also insulting his parents as well, but at the time Sherlock ignored it because John was just magnificent.

Even when John's anger was directed at Sherlock, there was just something about the way he lost it that Sherlock found unbelievably intriguing. Intriguing. Interesting. Enticing. The word he was really looking for was "Hot".

And afterwards when John calmed down. When his shoulders relaxed and his hands loosened at his sides and his eyes went wide and innocent again. Afterwards he would always apologise. And try to explain. Not try to justify his rage. Never try to excuse it. Just say he was sorry for not finding a better way to express his frustration.

And then Sherlock would put his arms around him, not saying anything. Hoping John realised he was sorry too. And hoping John realised that his temper outages only made Sherlock love him more.


	19. Talking to Frank

Sherlock sneaked in to John's room to watch him sleeping. There were no nightmares tonight. Just deep peaceful sleep. He looked so very young in the half light of the room. He'd fallen asleep with the reading lamp on and a book gripped loosely in one hand. Sherlock gently moved the book to the bedside table and sat quietly in the chair at the foot of the bed.

John was laid out flat on his back, a habit from his early Army days when you learned to sleep without messing up your bed. His t-shirt slightly rucked up so that Sherlock could see his belly button and the soft rise and fall of his stomach with every gentle intake of breath.

Sherlock quickly became aware that his was not the only pair of eyes taking part in the silent vigil. He turned his head slowly to find himself under the scrutiny of an elderly toy Hippopotamus that looked slightly annoyed at his intrusion.

Sherlock was not used to being intimidated. Especially not by inanimate objects. Especially not furry inanimate objects. But there was something in the expression. Something in the depths of the black eyes that was very disconcerting. It might well have been disapproval. As though it was silently saying: "Prove to me you are good enough for John."

Sherlock picked the hippo up from the top of the chest of drawers and looked at it. He turned it over a couple of times in his hands. Gathering evidence. It was worn on its right front leg where Left-Handed John had held it over the years, wearing the fur away. There was evidence of several repairs, in two distinct styles of sewing. The older stitches from Mrs Watson, the newer ones from John, gradually becoming more careful until the Hippo's seams were repaired with surgical precision. The fur around its neck was matted, as though it had been wet then dried, then wet again repeatedly over the years. As it had offered comfort to John's tears.

Sherlock looked over at the bed. John still fast asleep, scrunching his eyes up. Sherlock wondered if he was having a nightmare, but then John stretched a little and carried on sleeping. Sherlock looked back down at the Hippo.

"You've seen everything haven't you?" he said quietly. "You know all his secrets. You've held his hand and dried his tears. And never asked for anything in return. I wished I was like that." He paused. "If I die, you will make sure he's all right wont you?" And then, because he sensed that Frank the Hippo was very good at keeping secrets he spoke his greatest fear.

"If he dies, will you make sure I'm all right?" The black eyes looked directly at him and as he tilted the hippo back he was sure it was smiling at him.

When John woke up he was greeted by the sight of The World's Only Consulting Detective curled up in the chair, cuddling Frank the Hippo.

Frank didn't look like he minded at all.


	20. Alone

Most of the time when Sherlock couldn't sleep he would quietly sit and think, or conduct one of his less explosive experiments. There was also the time when he discovered baking, which like every normal hobby he had ever tried lasted for about a week until he got bored of it, but for the duration of the week it had received his sole attention. John had never wanted to see another cupcake as long as he lived by the end of it. Sometimes when his insomnia struck he would prowl around the City, finding his way over roof tops and into alleyways and the blackest corners of London.

Sometimes he would of course stay at home and watch John sleeping. Exploring the mystery that was John Watson. One that he knew deep down he would never really solve.

And then there were the other times. The times when some short circuit in the wiring of Sherlock's brain decided that, like Bagpuss, when Sherlock was awake all his friends should be awake too. Then he would play his violin, shoot the wall and cause things in the kitchen to explode. Anything really. He once managed to blow up a tin of Noodle-Doodles, just to prove that pasta was not an inert substance. John had gone mad at him, partly because of the mess and the rude awakening. But mostly because that had been his breakfast.

John would appear, bleary and annoyed in the living room and politely ask Sherlock "What the f*** he thought he was doing at 2/3/4/Stupid O'clock in the morning?" to which Sherlock would have an answer, but not one John was prepared to listen to.

In the beginning these nocturnal battles of will had usually resulted in John storming back to his room and slamming the door, whilst muttering things Sherlock assumed he learnt in the Army. Then Sherlock would be left alone, downstairs with the echo of the door and John's words vibrating in his head. Left alone.

One night John slammed the door of his room, only to realise he was actually really thirsty, probably because of all the shouting, and he was going to have to go back down the stairs for a glass of water. It would ruin the impact of his dramatic exit, but he was a big boy, he'd had worse.

Sherlock was sat quite still on the sofa. His knees drawn up to his chin, head bowed. And when he lifted his eyes up and looked at John, it was very obvious he was crying. All of John's anger dissolved in Sherlock's tears, as he looked at the sheer misery in those silvery eyes.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he sat down on the sofa.

"I...I'm sorry...I just didn't want to be alone...I'm always alone...I didn't want to be alone." The confession came in choking sobs.

John put his arms around Sherlock and pulled him close.

"You're not alone. Not anymore." He gently ran his fingers through the dark curls until slowly Sherlock stopped his sobbing and fell asleep. "Neither am I."


	21. Wounded

They say Doctors tend to make very bad patients. In the case of John Watson this was most definitely true. And it was a small mercy to the staff of the NHS that John's stays in Hospital were infrequent.

When they had brought him back from Afghanistan, it had taken perhaps half an hour before everyone in the hospital knew that the small blond soldier with the shoulder trauma was in fact a Captain and Surgeon in the RAMC. He had been covertly and quickly moved to a private room. Because taking care of your own was very important.

John had been so high on Morphine he thought he would never come down again. Never come down from the clouds of warm, pain free sunshine he was skydiving through. And when he did have a few moments of lucidity in amongst the heat haze of drugs, it was as though the real world was reduced to a series of snapshots. Shutter clicks in his brain. Harry and Frank were there, both looking concerned. A nurse was adjusting his drip. A tall man with silver eyes was looking at him from the foot of the bed. His CO, just back with his Uniform trailing sand onto the floor was talking to him. A nurse tutting at the sandy mess. A man with silver eyes holding his hand and stroking his hair. More drugs. A man with silver eyes. Looking at him.

When they withdrew the drugs and brought him back to the real world, he knew he was dying. The pain. All of his blood was filled with glass splinters. And his body had been set on fire. He tried to get out of bed. He tried to scream. He tried to make them stop it all. He tried to find the man with Silver eyes because he would know the answer. He would know what the question was.

And finally when his shoulder was healed and there were no more drugs or splinters, just a dull ache in his bones that barely reminded him he was alive, they had let him go home. Or at least they had let him leave. And he had spent his days limping through the city like a wounded animal, looking for something he couldn't quite remember. Something he would never find because he was dead.

John screamed. He didn't want to be dead. He didn't want to be a ghost. He carried on screaming as he felt hands shaking his shoulders and then the same hands on his face.

"John? John look at me. Please." The silver eyes were filled with concern. Mercury tears forming in their depths.

"I knew you'd come back for me." John held on tightly. "I knew you wouldn't leave me."

"It's okay I'm here." Sherlock had no idea what reality and nightmare was currently mixing together in John's head. He only understood that he was needed.


	22. Doctor Who?

John Watson was carefully stitching Frank's back right leg. Another seam showing signs of age had to be repaired. Sherlock watched the extreme concentration, knowing that it wasn't just elderly hippos that got the benefit of John's skill. Real people did as well. And he knew that it wasn't just in the safety of a clinic, or a hospital that he could operate so smoothly. But in the heat and blood of the desert, the battlefield, with the world blowing up around him. John could shut it all out. Could zero in on nothing else but saving the life in front of him. That kind of single minded concentration was rare. All the more so because John had no idea he could do it.

And that was sort of wonderful.

"There you go old thing." Frank was placed carefully on a cushion, presumably so he could recover from his surgery whilst watching Doctor Who. Both John and Frank seemed very keen on Doctor Who. John patted him and set about packing up his suture kit. Sherlock continued to watch John. He wasn't so keen on Doctor's who could travel in time. He preferred them like John.

Sherlock moved over to the sofa and sat down, gently budging Frank and his cushion along. John took the hint and moved Frank onto his knees.

"Sherlock. You're staring at me again."

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"No. I like looking at you. How's the patient?"

"Recovering. As his Doctor I recommend complete silence for the duration of this episode of Doctor Who." There was silence for a few moments. Sherlock watched the screen.

"Does that Lazarus man remind you of Mycroft?"

"Shush."

"I wonder if Mycroft's DNA is mutating. That would explain everything."

"Shush."

"Although Mycroft would never have his hair cut like that."

"Sherlock." John turned to look at him. "I can't concentrate on this with you talking constantly. Shush."

Sherlock smiled and pulled John to him, so he was leaning against his chest.

"Does this break your concentration John?" He placed a kiss on John's cheek. "Or this?"

John leant back a little further, holding onto Frank so he didn't fall off.

"No. That's fine." Sherlock closed his eyes, and concentrated very hard on not saying anything.


	23. Death and Life

John Watson never ceased to be saddened by death. Whether it was the death of one of his elderly patients, and the sadness of everything they had witnessed now with them in their grave. The sadness of the youngsters who died, who never had the time to experience everything they should have. The sadness even of a murderer killed, that society failed them in some way and made their destruction necessary. And of course the Sadness at the death of a soldier, the death that had almost been his. Dead just for doing your duty.

Sherlock Holmes never ceased to be fascinated by the dead. The elderly who's whole life history was written on their skin, in their faces, in the calluses of their hands. The Young, from whom it could be deduced what they would have been had they grown older, who would have gone bald, who would have got fat. The cab driver, who even in death told him that he was right. The man on his way to the electric chair, confirming Sherlock's theory. Fascinating.

John could not understand how you could see a body and not care. He was perfectly capable of seeing objectively, but what made him a good Doctor, was seeing that every body, every corpse was a person. Even the villains. He could not understand how Sherlock managed that.

Sherlock could not understand how you could look at every corpse, every patient, every body and care about them. He knew if he tried that, it would fog his brain with emotions and make him unable to function. He could not understand how John managed to do that.

John often wondered if Sherlock really did care about him. Or was he simply another body. Another fascinating case.

Sherlock often wondered if John could possibly care for all those people and still care for him. Or was he just another one of the masses that John's soul wept for.

John and Sherlock often wondered these things separately. But when they were together, they had no doubt what the answers were. As long as they were together. And they held on tight. They both cared, but only for each other.


	24. Weighed in the Balance

John had never told Sherlock about when he was shot. It was one of those things that was so intimate, so personal, that you couldn't tell anyone. He couldn't tell Sherlock about the moments before when the gunfire and explosions were going off all around him as he tried to stop the blood flowing from the wounds of a twenty year old Royal Fusilier. He couldn't tell Sherlock that it was probably his own stupid fault that he got shot himself, taking risks as his patient bled out.

He could never tell Sherlock about the stinging pain as the bullet hit him, how he was knocked flying to the ground, and his clothes were instantly soaked with his own blood. How he tried to breathe only to find his chest crushed tight, and his lungs full of glass. How the pain slowly exploded into him, flowering like a cloth soaking up a spill.

Neither could he tell about the fear. That horrible moment when he knew he would die. The moment when he knew what the balance of the account of his life was. And for all the deposits he thought he had made over his years, the rate of interest had obviously not been great.

How could he tell Sherlock any of that? Sherlock. Who was brilliant and amazing and probably had a massive balance on his life account. Sherlock wouldn't die bankrupt. Not like John Watson. Sherlock who could read his mind. And from one tiny fact deduce the whole sorry story. Without ever John telling it.

"You asked God to let you live John?"

"Yes. Yes I did. Very unoriginal, I know."

"And He did. You lived. You asked and you were given. You were weighed in the balance and found worthy."

"You don't believe in God."

"No. But I believe in possibility. And if anyone was going to come before God and be found worthy, it would be you John." And suddenly John felt rather rich after all.


	25. First Choice

John had spent his entire life being picked last. For everything. At School he was always one of the last to be picked for the sports teams. Not because he was bad at sports, mainly because he was small. In the selection of the winning team it seemed height was greatly prized. Once people got to know him it changed. When people realised that on the Rugby field John Watson was the guy you most wanted on your team. Because he was fearless, calm under pressure and surprisingly strong.

It had been the same with girls at school. John was one of the last boys to get a date for the end of term dance. And it wasn't because he wasn't interested or bad looking. It was because he was ordinary. Nice. They all thought he was sweet, but unremarkable. That all changed when they found out he had been accepted into medical school, was going to be a soldier. Then they were all over him.

It had been the same with his duty rotation the day he was shot. That was by virtue of alphabetical order rather than someone's deliberate choice. But John had yet again been last choice on the list. Nearly the last time he was chosen for anything.

And then he had found himself in St. Bart's. Face to face with a stranger, who seemed to know everything about him straight away and still asked him to share a flat. No doubts. No questions. John Watson had been Sherlock's first choice. And John realised more importantly as he looked at the man sleeping beside him, he was Sherlock's final choice.

"Thank you for picking me first." He whispered. It was few moments before the sleepy reply came back.

"Thank you for picking me last."


	26. In the Frame

Precocious was a word that had often been applied, but seldom did justice to Sherlock's childhood. Hyperactive, pain in the arse, nightmare is what they had actually meant but were too polite to say. Sherlock was easily bored, refused to sleep, refused to eat meals, sit still, wear clothes or in any other way cooperate with grown up requests.

The only one who came near to controlling him was Mycroft, who was every bit as clever as Sherlock but had realised at a very early age that if you played the grown up game, it was a lot easier to get what you wanted and be left alone. So there was only one picture of the Holmes brothers together. Mycroft looking superior in his school uniform, his straw boater rakishly askew on his copper curls. And Sherlock, who looked like he had been pressure fed into a Barbapapa T-shirt and velvet cardigan, scowling at the camera with real malice in his Silver eyes. The camera did not show Mycroft's restraining hand on Sherlock's belt, nor did it record the conversation they had prior to the picture being taken. Mycroft had made it clear that unless Sherlock cooperated he would be sent to a prison guarded by black phantoms that sucked your brains out if you misbehaved. After that Sherlock had decided to come quietly. But he had never had his picture taken again, other than one strip of passport pictures that made him look like a murderer.

In contrast Mrs Watson had a whole drawer full of pictures of her children. Harriet and John at Christmas opening their presents. The School photos, the sports team photos, Holiday photos, John's graduation picture, pictures he had sent her back from Afghanistan. Hundreds of moments captured forever. John had been very photogenic as a child with his blond hair and round cheeks. People had suggested he should have modelled for catalogues and things, but he was a bit wriggly and Mrs Watson had decided against it.

Her favourite picture was one of Harriet and John which was taken when John was about two or three. Harriet was proudly wearing her new school uniform and beaming at the camera whilst she held on to her little brother. John wasn't exactly smiling, he looked more thoughtful than anything else, with the hint of a shy little grin on his face. Just in the bottom corner of the picture was the distinct outline of a green furry nose, Frank had managed to get in on the act as well. But the collection in the drawer had not been added to for years now. John had developed an intense dislike of having his picture taken after he had come back from the army. As though he was afraid of what the camera might capture.

It was Greg LeStrade who took the picture. On his phone. His cheap free with a year's contract from Tesco phone. Sherlock had his arm around John's shoulders and was laughing. John had for some reason got a large curly moustache drawn on his face with burnt cork, and was looking up at Sherlock with an exasperated expression and a look in his eyes that clearly said "You are my universe."

Everyone wanted a copy. Even John and Sherlock.


	27. Left to Die

It had been Sherlock's fault. Only not really. As John would later tell anyone who would listen. Yes it had been his idea, but John had gone along with it, which in John's honourable eyes made him equally, if not more to blame. But whoever was to blame the end result was John Watson sparked out on a hospital bed, whilst his sister, for once very sober, looked tearfully on from the foot of the bed and made various vows involving Sherlock's bowels and a very sharp pointy stick.

John had been shot. With a harpoon gun. Which in all honesty not even Sherlock had seen coming. Neither had John. Not until the last moment when he had pushed Sherlock out of the way just in time to be sliced open by the vicious barbed ends. Who even had a harpoon gun in Camden? Sherlock had heard the groan as John had crumpled to the floor, but had not really registered the slowly spreading pool on the floor. He studied the scarlet puddle briefly and then ran off in pursuit of the man who had pulled the trigger. He had left John on the floor.

John wasn't sure which had hurt most. The sick burning in his belly from where the bolt had seared his insides. Or the crushing pain in his throat because Sherlock had left him alone and the look on his face that clearly said John was nothing more than food for worms, transport. John had not even asked God to let him live this time around. Because he really didn't think living was for him anymore.

It had been Mycroft who sent the ambulance. And Mycroft who had called Harriet Watson. And Mycroft who had sent a large unmarked car for her. Big brother was watching all the time. Even now.

Sherlock appeared in the Hospital several hours later. You did not have to be a master of deduction to realise he had been in a fight. The purple bruises on his face and the scraped knuckles told everything. He held a carrier bag in his broken left hand. Harry looked at him with an expression that clearly said she wanted to kill him. He looked back at her with an expression that clearly said join the queue. John's eyes opened wearily.

"John. I got them. The bastards that did this. Chased them all over London. But I got them." He looked down awkwardly. "Oh I brought you something. I thought you might need him." And he pulled a rather indignant looking Frank from the carrier bag and sat him on the foot of the bed.

"And I got this as well. I assumed your old one would be beyond repair." He held up a brand new Aran Sweater.

"I thought you left me to die."

"You're not allowed to die John. You are not allowed to leave me. And you promised you wouldn't."

"Yes. I did. Didn't I?" Sherlock slipped into the chair beside the bed and he, Harry, and Frank sat in companionable silence whilst John slept.


	28. Food of Love

Sherlock was playing the violin. Somewhere downstairs, probably wandering around the flat, he was playing. Playing properly. Not the series of annoying squeaks, shrieks and flats that usually issued forth when he was thinking. But some beautiful, sad, gentle piece of music that John recognised, but could not quite place.

John lay back on his bed, arms behind his head, listening and letting the music caress him softly. Feeling his eyelids getting heavier as the warm sounds stroked him. He tried to imagine Sherlock's long fingers kissing the strings, gently moving the bow back and forth to produce the sound.

The same elegant fingers that ran through John's hair, and danced over his skin and made him feel wanted. The same elegant fingers that had reached out shyly a few days ago to stroke John's cheek, almost fearing he would turn away from them.

Sherlock had kissed him in public for the first time that night. Although John wasn't sure if Angelo's properly counted as public, as it was more like going to an Uncles house for dinner. Angelo had of course provided a candle, and the best pasta John had ever tasted. And a lot of very, very good red wine. Which made John a little bit fuzzy. And in the middle of it all Sherlock had pulled the oldest one in the book.

"You've got something on your face John." And had leant forward to wipe the small streak of sauce away with his napkin. And then he had kissed him. Not a full on tongues and everything kiss, but beautiful, gentle almost sad kiss. Like the music. The music. That's where he had heard it before.

The music Sherlock was playing was the same as the music that night in Angelo's.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the living room, eyes closed, lost in the emotion of the music.

"Sherlock?" he turned and saw John standing in the doorway.

"John. Did I wake you?" John moved towards him.

"I wasn't asleep. Sherlock? You've got something on your face." He smiled and pulled Sherlock down to kiss him.

The violin lay forgotten for the moment on the table, whilst Sherlock and John danced to a silent orchestra, playing just for them.


	29. Wishes

In the same way Sherlock never dreamt of anything, he never wished for anything. Asked, yes. But wished for? No. As a child he had wished, just once, with everything in his head to have a friend. Someone who wasn't like Mycroft, or Nanny or even Mummy. Someone who understood. But the wish, even though it was invoked using the wish bone from the Christmas Turkey, surely the highest form of wishing magic there was, never came true. He spent his whole childhood alone.

Of course Sherlock soon found out that magic was just a series of sleight of hand tricks and mind games to fool the stupid people. Mycroft said so. And you didn't need to wish for things when you were as rich as they were. You just asked for them. And Mummy would either say yes or no. She always seemed to say yes to Mycroft. But then he asked for the most boring things in the world. And Sherlock had never dared ask her for what he really wanted. Because he had a feeling that would cost more than even the Holmes family had.

John Watson had fervently wished as a child to be taller. At first he had wished to be taller than his father. Then tall enough to play professional Rugby. And finally he had settled on just being taller than his sister. He got that one. John was always wishing for things as a child. And mostly he got them, eventually, and sometimes not quite how he had been expecting.

The only one he never got was the one he kept hidden. The one that he had wished for with all his heart. The one he had even offered the whole taller than Harry thing as a trade for. He had wished to have a friend. A brilliant friend who wasn't like Harry, or his Mum, and especially not like his Dad. John had never dared to tell anyone about that wish.

They were all gathered round a table in the canteen at Scotland Yard. LeStrade, Donovan, Anderson, even Mike had popped over from St. Bart's. And they were all singing Happy Birthday to John, whilst a large sparkler on the top of the cake threatened to set off the Terrorist Attack system. Mercifully they hadn't put forty candles on the cake.

"Come on John. Make a wish." John smiled and looked over at Sherlock, who was lurking on the edge of the party.

"Okay. I wish I was taller."

"Don't say it out loud. It doesn't work if you say it out loud."

"Be careful what you wish for you may get it." Anderson added helpfully. John took another look over at Sherlock.

"I already did." And he smiled and cut the cake.

Safely back at Baker Street a few hours later, John relaxed against Sherlock and wished he hadn't eaten quite so much cake.

"Have you ever wished for anything Sherlock?"

"Only once."

"How did it work out?"

"Rather wonderfully. Eventually." He handed John a box. Inside resting on purple velvet was what looked like the wishbone of a Turkey, broken in two, both pieces were gold plated.

"Happy Birthday John." And he kissed him gently on the forehead.


	30. John Has a Bad Day

John was quiet when he got back from his shift at St. Bart's. Unusually quiet. He didn't rush to get changed from his suit and tie into one of his comfortable sweaters. He didn't even make a path straight for the kettle, or the whisky. Something was wrong.

He sat on the sofa. Staring into space. Staring at the mantelpiece and the detritus Sherlock had left there without comment.

"What's wrong John?" Sherlock knew perfectly well what was wrong. Had known for the moment he heard John's agitated key in the lock. The moment he had heard his uneven walk up the stairs. Sherlock could reason exactly what was wrong. But he felt it was important this time to keep his deductions to himself.

"I don't want to talk about it." Very bad. John always wanted to talk. They always talked.

"I'll make some tea." That alone should have been enough to force a comment from John about not being poisoned. Nothing. Silence. And then John got up from the sofa and limped painfully up the stairs to his room.

Sherlock made absolutely sure that the tea was perfect before he carried it carefully to John's room and knocked on the door.

"John? Can I come in?" There was a non-specific grunt from within. John was sitting on the floor, his box of precious things spilling its contents onto the carpet. Sherlock had never seen inside the box. Had never dared ask. He only knew it was where Frank sometimes resided, when he wasn't chatting to the skull. Sherlock was surprised to see in amongst the photographs and pieces of paper several small flat boxes.

"Are those your medals John?"

"Yes." Sherlock folded himself down onto the floor and put an arm around John's shoulders. For a moment John tried to shrug away from his touch, before collapsing against him, sobbing. This was like one of his nightmares, except they were all wide awake.

"A soldier's body was brought in today. Someone you knew. He was brought in to St. Bart's because he donated his body to medical science. He had no family."

"No. No one."

"And now you feel guilty. Because you are alive. Or because you weren't there to save him. Or because it could have easily been you. "

"Yes. Well done."

"John. There is nothing that you could have done. Not even if you had been there. You can't save everyone."Sherlock wiped the tears from John's eyes with his thumb. "But you save me every day."

The room was silent as John cried for his fallen comrade. And Sherlock cried because there was nothing he could do to make it better, except hold on.


	31. Decorations

John's face was a picture of concentration as he carefully un-ravelled the string of lights. In the space of 49 weeks they had managed to tie themselves into a knot that would have defied Baden-Powell. Sherlock sat on the window sill and looked amused at his flatmates concentration. John was surrounded by piles of glittering, shiny things. And furry shiny things. And Shiny things that if you put batteries in them would be noisy shiny things.

Sherlock didn't really get Christmas. As a child the Holmes mansion had been decorated lavishly with a real tree and candles and antique glass spirals that he had never been allowed to touch. The spirals were delicate, easily broken, and no matter how careful Sherlock promised he would be he was never allowed to touch them. That was Christmas for Sherlock. Something beautiful he was never allowed to touch. And on Christmas day the whole family had descended upon them and a seemingly endless parade of aunts and uncles and stupid cousins had all ignored the strange little boy. Sherlock hated Christmas. Because it always reminded him he was different. He was alone.

John's childhood Christmases had been bright jolly affairs at the beginning. With everyone helping to decorate with crepe paper streamers, and tinsel on a plastic tree and balloons. And Grandma's baubles that were very old and very delicate and John and Harry had been allowed to place one each on the tree, under supervision. And John's favourite Uncle, Ross, who was a soldier and always brought them the coolest presents (it was Ross who had sent Frank) was there whenever he could get home on leave. And Christmas was just brilliant. Until John's father had one too many to drink and the shouting started. Uncle Ross always sorted him out. Until the year Uncle Ross was killed in the Falklands. Until John tried to stop the shouting . Until John noticed that every year there seemed to be less and less people around the table. Until he wasn't even there himself. Until he was alone, surrounded by people in a boiling tent in the desert, eating Christmas pudding in hell.

Finally the lights were untangled, and John had set them on the tree along with all the other stuff. Except for a small, dirty white box. When his mother had asked if he had wanted them. He hadn't hesitated to say yes. They were all that was left.

"Do you want to help me put these on?" John held up a fragile glass spiral of peacock blue and purple, shimmering with mother of pearl, as it twisted on its silk. Sherlock took one in his hand, so carefully.

"Where?"

"Anywhere you like." John placed his own near the top of the tree, its green and gold glass edged with silver and red. It glittered in the firelight. Sherlock placed his spiral close to John's.

"I think they should be together John. They shouldn't be on their own. Not at Christmas." John and Sherlock looked at the two elderly baubles suddenly transformed and dancing in the light like the richest jewels in the world.

John reached out and took Sherlock's hand. And they watched.


	32. Bowties Are Cool

John was bordering on losing his temper. With his bowtie. He hated bowties. Really hated them. Especially the ones you had to tie yourself. Which of course he had first been introduced to in the army, as an officer of Her Majesty's Medical Corps would never be seen dead with a ready-tied one. But now John was nearly purple with suppressed rage at the bloody stupid tie that he was going to have to wear to the bloody stupid Scotland Yard party with his bloody stupid Tuxedo that didn't fit him properly. And it was all Sherlock's fault. It wasn't of course. But he was convenient to blame.

"Are you nearly ready John?" The voice called up the stairs.

"No. I'm bloody well not." He took the tie off for the twentieth time and threw it on the bed. Then sat down moodily. He didn't want to go. And didn't really understand why Sherlock wanted to go. Sherlock never went to parties. Unless they were related to a case.

"John? Are you all right?" Sherlock appeared in his room, predictably dressed in an elegant, tailored Tuxedo, with a black waist coat and perfectly tied Bowtie. He looked amazing. John looked down at his own clothes, which he felt did very little for him and sighed.

"I can't do my tie." He held the offending item up at arm's length; it looked like an unravelled bat.

"Oh. Well stand up." John stood. "Now turn around." Sherlock reached his arms around John, and within a few moments John was wearing a neatly tied Bowtie. Sherlock rested his hands on John's shoulders, pulling him a little closer.

"Why are we even going to this thing Sherlock? Can't you just go on your own?" The elegant hands smoothed across John's shoulders to his hands and turned him round, so the two men were facing each other.

"I want to show you off to everyone." Sherlock smiled. "They will all be there with their sad, ordinary little wives, and husbands and girlfriends and boyfriends. And I will be there with you." He picked up John's jacket and helped him into it. "I will be there with my beautiful, heroic army doctor. And they will all be very jealous. I shall be unbearably conceited about it."

"Even if i can't do my own tie?"

"Well as long as you know how to undo it later John, it's all fine. Are you ready?"

"Yes." Ready for more than the Scotland Yard party. They both were.


	33. Misletoe and Whine

John had lost count of the number of WPCs who had kissed him under the mistletoe and asked him to dance. Even Sally Donovan had taken one look at him and decided the season of goodwill to all men, whilst not quite extending to freaky sociopaths, most definitely extended to hunky doctors in close fitting tuxedos. It was all very flattering. And slightly confusing. And John was feeling a little bit disappointed, somehow. He had a strange feeling in his stomach every time he looked over to where Sherlock was lurking. He looked as though he was having a great time. Deduction party for one no doubt. But John got that feeling, that rollercoaster lurch, every time he gazed in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock had slipped into the shadows. Enjoying the attention John was getting. And enjoying working out who would be going home with whom later that evening. There were definitely going to be a few surprises and some very sore heads in the morning. But somewhere under the pleasure of knowing he was undoubtedly right there was another emotion. One wholly unfamiliar to him. It was a sore feeling in the back of his throat and a clenching in his stomach. Every time he looked over at John.

And finally Sherlock had enough of watching. Wizzard were proclaiming that they "wished it could be Christmas every day." And John was dancing with one of the girls from the forensics unit who had her hands planted firmly on his arse. And that was not fine at all.

Sherlock strode onto the dance floor and tapped John on the shoulder.

"Can I cut in?" John looked a little bewildered.

"Erm yes?" The girl looked rather pleased that Sherlock Holmes was about to dance with her. Doctor Watson was cute, but he was a bit teeny, kind of like a Hobbit. Sherlock smiled and took John by both hands, leaving the girl stood in the middle of the dance floor open mouthed. The music had switched to Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

"Sherlock what are you doing?"

"This." John was suddenly aware that they had come to a halt under the mistletoe.

"No. Absolutely not."

"You won't kiss me?"

"No."

"Why not? You've kissed practically everyone else in the room under the mistletoe. " And Sherlock let go of John's hands and strode purposely towards the exit.

Sherlock was leant moodily against a wall. His eyes were red and watery. John knew he had screwed it up.

"Sherlock?"

"Go away."

"No. Listen to me. You're absolutely right. I kissed lots of people under the mistletoe tonight. I think I even kissed Anderson. Far too much policeman's punch. But I'm not kissing you under the same common mistletoe as everyone else. For you it has to be special." John reached into his inside pocket and pulled a small, slightly squashed sprig of mistletoe and held it up, smiling.


	34. Once Upon Another Time

It was another one of those weird dreams John had, which when he finally awoke from it he blamed on a large amount of Eggnog and a dodgy Tuna Sandwich. One of those dreams that wasn't exactly a nightmare, but took place somewhere so far from reality that it had its own kind of terror, lurking underneath the blanket of fog.

John ran down the street, his feet slipping on cobbles as he ran with his revolver in his hand.

"Come on Watson. We mustn't lose him in this fog." The strange familiar voice that he knew to be Sherlock Holmes, only not, called to him as they ran down alleyways, dodging horses and piles of boxes. And then there were gun shots.

"Quick Watson." And he fired. Only his aim was out because Holmes was falling. The tall, slender figure was falling to the dirty floor, and John had no idea whether it was his gun or that of the unseen assailant that had fired the fatal shot. And John was calling for an ambulance, and looking into strange green eyes which grew dimmer as he waited, unable to do anything but sit and slowly be drenched in Sherlock Holmes blood. The eyes closed, and then snapped open one final time, staring, almost wild with the last of the dream Holmes inner fire.

"John!" And the fire went out.

"John? John wake up." Someone was shaking him. "John. It was a nightmare. Wake up."

"You were dead. I killed you. You were dead. It was my fault."

"I'm not dead John." Sherlock held him very tightly. "I'm right here." And in a way Sherlock was glad that John's nightmares about Afghanistan which were all too real had been replaced by some sort of fantasy. Some sort of problem Sherlock could solve.

"We were running. And there were shots. And you died." John was still not quite awake yet.

"John. Look at me." John looked into the silver eyes. Silver, not cat-green. "Someone died but it wasn't me. It wasn't real John. This is real." And a semi awake John Watson found himself being kissed and held very tightly by the real Sherlock Holmes.

"If you died..."

"Shush John; you don't need to say it." But inside Sherlock was thinking exactly the same thing_. If_ _you died, I would die too_. And even his genius's brain could not work out if that was a good thing or not.


	35. Pyjamas

John slept on his back. Very still. And he didn't snore. Or at least he didn't think he snored. He lay flat out, usually looking as though he had collapsed backwards on the bed and couldn't be bothered to move. Sometimes he wore pyjamas, the type with the t-shirt top, not old man's pyjamas. Sometimes he just wore the trousers. And very occasionally he would wear nothing at all. When he was asleep he looked almost impossibly young, the lines etched into his face from daily life smoothed out. He would always push the covers off, no matter how cold the room got. And if Sherlock happened to be observing this he would replace them gently so John didn't get cold. Very occasionally, and probably not meaning to John would fall asleep cuddling onto Frank. Sherlock had to admit he was a touch jealous of that Hippo.

When he slept, Sherlock would toss and turn, over and over, never still, like the world's most elegant Shark. Even asleep his brain kept working. Sometimes he wore Pyjamas; often he wore whatever he had been wearing that day. And very occasionally he would wear nothing at all. John sensed that sleep did not bring him the rest and respite it was supposed to, but was merely an inconvenient necessity. Often when he was asleep he would scowl, as though he was angry to be wasting time. Sometimes as he slept he would hug the pillow and keep it firmly gripped in his arms as he moved. John was very jealous of that pillow.

John and Sherlock didn't sleep in the same bed often. But when they did they would hold on to each other. There would be no movement, no nightmares, no disturbed thrashing. Just Sherlock holding John tightly, feeling the rise and fall, the gentle push of John's belly against him. The soft exhale of breath on his skin. John's gentle purring snores. John would feel the soft tickle of Sherlock's hair on his skin, the pressure of Sherlock's bony arms around him. The slow relaxing of Sherlock's tense muscles. John and Sherlock melted against one another and slept.


	36. Cookies

John could cook. Really cook. Whole meals from scratch. He'd even had a bash at making his own pasta once. And whilst it had looked like he was boiling up alien babies it did taste fantastic. These days he didn't cook so much, pressures of time and fighting for oven and fridge space with various people who had donated their bodies to science. But every now and then, usually when he was worrying about the effect ready meals and takeaways were having on his insides and his waistline, John would cook. Or sometimes when he was having a bad day and wanted to take his mind off things.

Which is why on a December evening, with the outside world slowly dissolving in to slush John was in the newly scrubbed kitchen making cookies. Cinnamon and Golden Syrup, like the ones his mum always made. It had been one hell of a day. Before he'd even got to work he had seen a car accident and had ended up operating in the street to stop a man from bleeding to death. Then when he'd got to work, in amongst the flu jabs and crying babies, he had to tell Mrs Lawrence that she had cancer. She'd taken it really well, with a cheery "Oh well at least I get one more Christmas." And when he had offered her the various treatment options she had simply replied "When you get to my age love" She was 92 "You realise there are worse things than dying." And they had left it at that.

John mixed the butter and golden syrup together in the bowl and wished Sherlock would come home. Come home so he could curl up on the sofa with him and pretend that the only thing existed was 221B Bakers Street and that they were the only two people in the world. Sherlock finally came home when John was painstakingly cutting out stars by hand from the rolled out dough. He felt that his Dalek shaped cookie cutter was not really Christmassy enough.

"Are you baking John?"

"Yes. I'm making cookies." Sherlock immediately walked over to him and gave him a hug. He smelled of the cold.

"I'm sorry you've had a bad day."

"How did you know I had a bad day?"

"Cookies." As if that was explanation enough. John supposed it probably was.

"Sherlock? Do you think there are worse things than death?"

"Of course. Don't you?"

"I know there are worse things than death. But sometimes..." John shook his head and went back to cutting out stars. Sherlock dumped his coat on the sofa and returned to the kitchen where he pressed against John's back and slipped his arms around his waist.

"The worst thing I can imagine is not being with you John. I would rather be dead than lose you. You're my best friend. No one else understands. No one else would put up with me."

"I love you too Sherlock." And Sherlock didn't seem to mind that John was getting flour all over them as they kissed.


	37. Death is Easy

John often lay awake at night wondering what he would do if anything happened to Sherlock. He suspected everyone would think he was fine if he was suddenly on his own. He was John Watson. John Watson was a tough guy, the ex army man. The guy you wanted on your side in a fight. The guy who had seen it all and come out the other side laughing. But John knew the truth of it.

Death was easy.

Falling into the accepting arms of death was easy. What was hard was being sent back to the living after you died with a chunk gouged out of your soul. What was hard was having no way of knowing whether you were alive or not. What was hard was not having Sherlock.

Sherlock lay awake wondering what he would do if John died. Before John, Sherlock had never considered he was lonely, the same way a blind child does not know it is blind until someone tells it. But Sherlock knew now what had been missing from his life. Which giant chunk of his being had been gouged out by unseen hands and left him without. Dying Sherlock had no worries about. Being without John bothered him greatly.

Sherlock was certain that John would be okay without him. After all John was normal. John had friends and emotions and John cared about things and cried at the end of films. So John would be fine.

John was sure Sherlock would be okay if anything happened to him. Sherlock didn't really need anyone. If John was being realistic he was just an interesting diversion and one day Sherlock would get bored with him. John knew that. He wasn't stupid. And if John died, well Sherlock would be fine.

Secretly Sherlock had a plan. If anything happened to John he had already selected the quickest acting poison he could find. It would be easy.

Secretly John had a plan. If anything happened to Sherlock he had his revolver ready and waiting. He'd been shot before. It would be easy.

Death for Sherlock and John would just be the next awfully big adventure. But although neither would admit it, it was an adventure neither was prepared to let the other face alone.


	38. Missing Sherlock

John had another dream. It was his own fault. Too much mulled wine. Inevitable really. And there he was back in the weird world of Watson. That strange dreamland where everything was familiar but not. Where the man he recognised as Sherlock, wasn't his Sherlock but someone else's. This Sherlock was still tall and lean, still all razor sharp edges and genius. But not his.

For the first time in his dream, there was a mirror. And John caught sight of himself in it. Only it wasn't him. Not really. The tall, burly, golden haired John Watson that looked back from the mirror was who he had always wanted to be. Not who he was. And he wondered if that was who the dream Sherlock saw when those green eyes came to bear on him. Some bulky, solid, bruiser of a man that could beat up the bad guys and be of some use. Surely this dream Sherlock would never look like that at the real John Watson? Little short stocky John Watson with his bad shoulder and occasional limp? Not likely.

But then there was that beautiful moment when John had rejoined the real world. When the face in the wardrobe mirror was his. And it was his Sherlock holding on to him. His Sherlock smoothing his hair down and telling him it would all be all right. And John felt sorry for the dream Watson, whoever he was. Because he would never get that, no matter how much he wanted it.

John pulled Sherlock close to him. Pulling his flatmate down tight against his small chunky frame. Never wanting to let go. Never wanting to admit that there was possibly another world where Sherlock and John never did this. A world so far away from this one that it scared John. Because perhaps one day he wouldn't make it back?

Sherlock was not quite sure what was going on with his flatmate. Dreams were so hard to deduce. He only had a feeling that John had been a very long way away, but now he was home.

"I missed you Sherlock."

"I love you too John."


	39. Thinking too Loud

John watched Sherlock sleeping on the sofa. The case was over and this was the post- crime- solving crash. He might sleep for a few hours. He might sleep for days. John had covered him carefully with a blanket. And waited.

Sherlock looked so beautiful when he was asleep, no other word for it. Beautiful. All elegant lines and graceful angles. His face relaxed and handsome. It made John's heart hurt. And it also fuelled John's own self doubt. The things he never talked about. Because he wondered if one day Sherlock would find him boring like everyone else Sherlock had ever known? Or worse, not boring, but just decide he hated him, like he had done with Mycroft. Or worse, find that John was no longer of any use. And then what was he going to do? Perhaps, thought John, he needed to leave now. While he still had a chance of getting out in more or less one piece. Because the longer he stayed, the longer he risked total annihilation when Sherlock decided it was all over.

Sure. It was all fine now. But John knew from bitter experience that it didn't always stay fine. Especially it seemed if you added John Watson into any relationship equation. There was the girlfriend who left him for his taller, better looking friend in the first year of Medical School. There was the girl who promised she would wait for him when he left for his first tour in Afghanistan. She had in fact waited a week before informing him via email that she was now going out with a Captain in the Guards. There was the girl he met on leave in Brighton who he had spent two weeks taking out to dinner and making passionate love to in a variety of expensive places. Who never even wrote to him. And all the other relationships before and in-between. They all decided he wasn't worth the effort.

Sherlock shifted a little in his sleep. John sighed and seriously considered packing his things and going. What did he think he was doing? How could that amazing creature asleep on the sofa ever be his? John stood. Unable to watch any longer because the lump in his throat was threatening to strangle him.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was sleepy.

"Yes?"

"You're not leaving are you? Please don't leave me." John wasn't entirely sure Sherlock was awake.

"I won't."

"Good." A long arm pulled John down onto the sofa. "You really do think too loud John."


	40. Snow Business

Sherlock was hopping from foot to foot, his leather soled shoes affording him little protection from the cold snow currently icing Regent's Park. He pulled his coat a little further around himself and tried to retract his neck a little further down into his scarf. John didn't seem to have a problem with the cold. But then John had those sensible thick soled army boots, and a padded jacket, and a hat. And gloves. And probably thermal underwear as well. And more body fat, mainly because Sherlock didn't really have any. And also because John Watson, at the age of forty was running around like a ten year old, making a snowman. Except it wasn't exactly a snowman. Sherlock was trying to work out what it was going to be.

He remembered Mycroft making a snowman one year. Sherlock had been in bed with the mumps and had watched the construction of the giant creature on the front lawns. Mycroft and his friend Nicholas. Nicholas Garrideb, a short, stocky boy with bright green eyes who always seemed to be smiling; Mycroft's best friend, who had come to stay every Christmas, because his parents were overseas and had actually been quite nice to Sherlock. One year he had even managed to get Sherlock a frog dissection kit, how he had managed to sneak such contraband into the house Sherlock had never worked out. Nicholas had died when he was sixteen, a heart defect he had been born with that they never knew he had. Until one day he just collapsed playing Badminton. It was a shame. Mycroft had always been a lot nicer when Nick was around. And their snowman had taken all afternoon to construct and had looked like an Easter Island statue, and smiled up at Sherlock's bedroom window. Sherlock wondered what Mycroft would be like if Nick hadn't died.

John's snowman was a strange cone shape, and he was painstakingly attaching snowballs to the front of it. It was driving Sherlock mad not knowing what it was. He stamped his feet again, carefully, fearing that one of them may snap off in the cold.

"John? Are you nearly finished?"

"Yes."

"I'm cold."

"Well come and help. This is fun."

"I seriously doubt it." But Sherlock reluctantly took a snowball and attached it where John indicated. After several more frozen minutes John stuck the sink plunger he had brought from Baker Street into the front of the snowman, and a piece of broken TV aerial. He seemed very pleased with the effect.

"What do you think?"

"What is it?"

"You don't know?" John seemed delighted.

"No. Because I think it is something you just made up to annoy me."

"Now why would I do that?" John's grin was getting broader.

"Mum, mum! Look at that. It's a Dalek! A Snow-Dalek." A voice from behind them shouted. And a ten year old boy with an expression that matched John's ran over to have a closer look. John smiled.

"That's just cheating John." Sherlock watched the small boy grinning at John's creation as though he had just discovered a room full of gold.

"This is just the best thing ever!" He smiled at John and Sherlock. "Mum, take a picture of me."

Sherlock could not believe how excited the boy was. It was only a snowman, after all.

"Come on Sherlock. Let's go home and get you warmed up." They walked through the park, not quite holding hands, but Sherlock kept looking back. Because he dimly remembered, somewhere buried in the back of his mind, a poorly little boy who looked out of his bedroom window at a familiar landscape frozen in to a monochrome snapshot, and two older boys waving enthusiastically up at him and pointing to the Snowman they had made for him. Two older boys not quite holding hands.

Just as they reached the corner of Baker Street, and John was talking with some enthusiasm about Cinnamon Lattes and hot buttered crumpets, Sherlock stopped.

"John. I think I need to go and see Mycroft." And John didn't ask questions, simply took Sherlock's hand and shouted for a Taxi. John understood. John always understood.


	41. Perfect

As a rule, John got very excited about Christmas once Christmas was actually happening, but was a bit of a grump in the run up to it. He spent the week before Christmas eating very small quantities of dry toast in the hope of offsetting the inevitable indulgences that the festive season brought. Which wasn't easy when the world and its curious dog wanted Sherlock and him to go out to dinner with them.

John was collapsed on the sofa. He could murder a kebab. Or a burger. Or a steak the size of his head. He was trying to take his mind off things with a few Doctor Who Christmas Specials. One thing about Timelords, they never seemed to eat much. He wondered if the Tardis even had a kitchen? His stomach growled at him.

"Is there some kind of animal loose in here John?"

"What?"

"Of course. The week before Christmas. No wonder you've been miserable for two days."

"I have not been miserable!"

"And argumentative."

"I am not argumentative." And then John realised the folly of that statement. Sherlock looked annoyingly amused.

"Week before Christmas and it will time for your pre Christmas diet. Low blood sugar resulting in a bad temper. And probably a headache by the way you have been squinting at those Stormtroopers. Unless you need glasses?"

"They are Cybermen! Stormtroopers are in Star Wars. And I do not need glasses. And I know perfectly well what my blood sugar is doing thank you very much." John's dramatic exit was ruined by him standing up too quickly and passing out, taking out the coffee table on his way down.

When he woke up he was in Sherlock's bed. Covered in a blanket, with a concerned looking Sherlock sitting next to him gently stroking his forehead. There was a cup of something steaming on the bedside table.

"What happened?"

"You sort of passed out. Here drink this." And the cup was pressed to his lips.

"That tastes fantastic!"

"It's Mrs Hudson's special recipe hot chocolate. She made it with skimmed milk for you." John's stomach growled again. "Shall I get you a sandwich?"

"Yes please." Sherlock continued to stroke John's hair.

"Sorry for shouting at you."

"It's quite all right John." Sherlock snaked his hand up inside John's jumper "You do know you're perfect exactly the way you are? Now what do you want in your sandwich?"


	42. More Time

Sherlock needed a fix. It was three a.m. and every vein in his body was screaming at him for drugs. He'd tried nicotine patches, ridiculously strong coffee and even given a man on the street fifty quid for a cigarette. But still the delicate blue web was standing up in painful relief against his pale clammy skin. This was bad. He knew it. And he also knew he couldn't possibly let John see him like this.

It was three a.m. and he knew he was going to have to call Mycroft. And Mycroft would turn up immaculate and straight away and sort everything out. Because that's what Mycroft always did. And Sherlock had called him from worse places than Baker Street. Any number of alleyways, police stations, squats, and Mycroft had always found him. And Sherlock had always resented that. But right now he wanted two things: he wanted drugs, and he wanted John not to find him like this.

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock. Problem?"

"I need to...I need... I...help me."

"All right Sherlock. Where are you?" Mycroft's calm voice asked. Sherlock could hear traffic noise in the background; Mycroft was getting in to his car. Not the big government one. The private Aston Martin he had for these late night missions.

"Baker Street."

"Where's Doctor Watson?" Surely John would never have left Sherlock in this state.

"Working. Only another hour. Can't find me like this. Help me."

John was surprised when he got home from his shift. Late night Surgical this week. Somehow it felt good to be up to your elbows in someone's insides, which in itself was probably not so good. Mycroft Holmes was sat on the sofa, drinking tea. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John felt his stomach begin to rise into his throat.

"Mycroft?"

"Doctor Watson."

"Is everything okay? Where's Sherlock?" By which John actually meant _What the hell has he done this time?_

"He's asleep." By which Mycroft actually meant _He's passed out on high strength Government Issue tranquilisers._

"Okay."

"Doctor Watson. Are you aware that my brother used to be a drug addict?"

"Yes."

"He told you?"

"No. I worked it out. I'm a Doctor. We get trained to recognise the signs."

"Is Sherlock aware that you know?"

"I don't think so. Look, what's happened? He's not gone and bought drugs has he? Why didn't he say something? I'd have written him a prescription." John was probably unaware that as he paced agitatedly up and down, he was limping. Mycroft spotted it straight away. Interesting.

"May I remind you that you would lose your licence for that, Doctor."

"Well it's better than losing him." Very interesting.

"He thought you would leave if you found him begging for a fix on the floor of your flat."

"It's our flat. Is that what he thinks I'm like? My God, that's terrible." John Watson looked devastated.

"I don't think he knows, John. Our family tend to be very unlucky when it comes to friendships. Sherlock can tell you what you had for dinner three days ago by the way you tied your shoelaces this morning, but he has no idea how you will react to finding out he's still an addict. And he's frightened. Please let him know he doesn't need to be frightened." Mycroft stood.

"I will. What have you given him?" Mycroft handed John a foil packet.

"These aren't even available in this country yet." Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Goodnight John. And do make sure you tell him. Everything. We always tend to think we have far more time than we really do." As if to emphasise this Mycroft checked his pocket watch and smiled to himself.

John stood alone for a moment, before going to Sherlock's room. His limp had gone.


	43. Moustache

The pills Mycroft had made him swallow had produced an unusual side effect. Or at least Sherlock really hoped it was a side effect. Otherwise he sensed that he was in more trouble than even his big brother could get him out of. Sherlock was dreaming. And Sherlock never dreamt. Dreaming was a waste of valuable brain processes.

But there could be no other explanation for the fact that he was laying on a gravel path outside a small cottage in Cornwall, with a rather burly man with a moustache shouting at him that he was an idiot, in between spluttering and spitting some rather nasty looking green stuff up into the bushes.

"John!" Sherlock shouted. Hoping that somewhere Doctor Watson would hear him.

"Yes. It's all right Holmes. I'm here. What the bloody hell were you thinking? You could have been killed. You could have lost your mind. Do you know how dangerous that was?" The man shook him again, roughly but at the same time with underlying concern. And Sherlock sort of understood.

"John Watson?"

"Holmes?" The stern features resettled themselves into a gentler expression.

"Watson. My Watson." Even if he didn't look like him, Sherlock knew this was John. The John that lived in his head. Curiously in some sort of BBC costume drama if their clothes were anything to go by. Sherlock put his arms around dream Watson's neck and hugged him. If it had been reality he supposed Victorian John would have been terribly offended, but this was after all Sherlock's dream, so he could do what he liked. John hugged back.

"Holmes. Don't ever do that again. I will put up with you taking cocaine. I will put up with you chain smoking that nefarious tobacco of yours. But I will not put up with you taking risks like this. You should have told me what you were going to do."

"Then you would have stopped me."

"Too bloody right! You don't have to do everything on your own Sherlock." And Sherlock suddenly felt such an overwhelming desire to kiss John that he could do nothing but surrender to it.

"Sherlock. Come on wake up. If you don't wake up I will have to kill Mycroft, and that won't end well for anyone. "Gentle hands were shaking him and John Watson's moustache-less face swam into focus.

"John!"

"Yes. It's all right Sherlock I'm here. I'm always here. You should have called me. You don't have to do everything on your own Sherlock." And this time the desire to kiss was real. And so was the kiss itself. Although somewhere at the back of his head Sherlock wondered if he could persuade John to grow a moustache.


	44. An Awfully Big Adventure

Sherlock had dragged John around what seemed like every shop in London. Psychosomatic or not, his leg was really beginning to hurt. And at no point had Sherlock given John the slightest clue what they were looking for. It was one of those times when John just closed his eyes and had faith. Faith in Sherlock. Trust. Because in their rather complicated relationship, that was really what it all boiled down to.

Finally, in what must have been the five hundredth shop they had been in, Sherlock finally tapped John on the shoulder and held up a small carrier bag. A look of not quite triumph misting his eyes.

"John, can you drive?" John wondered how that had never come up in conversation before now.

"Yes. Of course I can. Learnt in the Army. Why?"

"I need you to drive me somewhere."

"Slight problem. We don't have a car. And there's no way we'll get a rental this close to Christmas. Why can't we take a cab?"

"This is a little out of the way. Don't worry about a car. I'll find one." Again. It was going to have to be a trust thing.

Sherlock borrowed Mycroft's Aston Martin. Or at least he broke in to the lock up where it was stored and hotwired it. John was wondering if that counted as car theft. Sherlock said he would leave a note. John suspected it wasn't the first time.

They drove for several hours, and the sky was starting to bruise with the first signs of evening, when they finally pulled up a small road and into a Village.

"Just up there John. Park outside the Church."

"Where are we Sherlock?"

"Midsomer Wenlock. It's where I grew up." And Sherlock made off into the darkening Churchyard.

There were several tombs which bore the name Holmes, grand gothic affairs in marble and granite. Expensive, well tended. Sherlock walked passed them all, ignoring generations of family history, until he stopped at a small white marble headstone, by the wall, under a beautiful oak tree. On a summer's day it would be a lovely place to wait out eternity.

John hung back a little. Wondering who was buried there. Who was so important to Sherlock that he had bothered to come all this way. He watched as Sherlock knelt down, brushing a few leaves from the grave and stroking the cold marble with his fingertips, almost as though he was trying to touch the face of whoever was buried there. He took something out of the bag he had clutched for the whole car journey and placed it by the head stone. Then he had simply stood and turned away.

John squinted at the headstone in the fading light. Making out the pale letters on the marble.

NICHOLAS JOHN GARRIDEB 1966-1982

"To die will be an awfully big adventure"

Propped up against the headstone sat a grumpy looking bean bag frog. John didn't understand the significance. He knew it was another of those things he just had to have faith in.


	45. Straight on 'Til Morning

What do you get the consulting detective who has everything? At the eleventh hour on Christmas Eve, John Watson found himself asking this very question. All the usual stuff, DVD's, books, slippers, jumpers, bottles of Scotch seemed just a little to ordinary for Sherlock. John needed to get him something that was extraordinarily special.

Sherlock was visiting Mycroft. Some strange seasonal truce had been called, although John suspected it was something to do with their visit to that little churchyard earlier in the week. Sherlock and his brother were having a Christmas drink together at the Diogenes club. Something so horrible to think about that John had been quite glad not to be invited. Sherlock had taken Mycroft a box of Liquorice Allsorts. John wondered if he'd laced them with some kind of poison.

In a final act of desperation John ended up in the gift shop of the Science Museum. Perhaps some sort of scientific gift? Although by this time John was seriously thinking about calling in a favour from Mike and seeing if he could steal something interesting from the St. Bart's anatomy collection. Nothing said happy Christmas Sherlock like a pickled spleen. He blinked the thought out of his head as a rather pretty sales assistant asked if he needed any help.

"I'm looking for a gift for my... partner?"

"What sort of thing are they in to?"

"Chemistry, Forensics that sort of thing. But I wanted something special." Or possibly cadaverous John refrained from adding.

"First Christmas together?" how she knew that he did not know. "I might have just the thing."

It was a mercifully clear night, and the sky was looking rather festive and twinkly as John looked out of the window of his attic room. He just hoped Sherlock liked what he decided on.

"Sherlock? Can you come up here a moment please?" There was the thud of Sherlock rolling off of the sofa where he had been hurling abuse at the television for the past half an hour. Apparently Santa Claus the Movie was historically inaccurate.

"John? What?"

"Come here. I wanted to give you your Christmas Present."

"It's not Christmas." Sherlock looked suspiciously around the room. Looking for clues. All he got was a rather knowing smile from the Hippo.

"I have to show you now. Come here. And look through this." John indicated a rather nice telescope set up to point out of the skylight.

"You bought me a telescope?"

"That's part of your present. Look through it." Sherlock peered into the eyepiece and could see a star, twinkling, blue, silver, perhaps green.

"It's a star?"

"Yes. Well done. It's your star. I named it after you."

"That star is called Sherlock Holmes?" John got a sinking feeling in his gut. Sherlock didn't get it. This was the most romantic thing John had ever done for anyone. And Sherlock didn't get it.

"Yes. I wanted something as unique and special, and beautiful as you are. And there is nothing on this earth good enough for you. So I had to go shopping in outer space." John's throat felt lumpy.

"John. I love it. But you're quite wrong about there not being anything on earth good enough for me." Sherlock leant in to kiss John. "You are more than good enough."

The star carried on twinkling in the heavens. And John and Sherlock fell down on to the bed.


	46. Unique

John had waded through the usual gifts on Christmas morning. It was amazing what everyone seemed to think John would like. He supposed it was because no one really knew him all that well. And it was made all the more disappointing by Sherlock passing comment on everything that John unwrapped.

The Jacket from Harry, an expensive thigh length grey cashmere coat. "She's feeling guilty about how little contact she's had with you, and also all those drunken late night phone calls. She's your big sister; she should be looking after you. She bought you that to keep you nice and warm and protected from the elements.

A subscription to the Lancet from Mike. "Obviously he wants you to stay up to date on all the latest issues. He thinks you are a useful man to have around."

A bottle of very good scotch from LeStrade. "That's a token of his appreciation for you keeping me under control. It also says he thinks you need a drink to put up with me."

An enormous tin of Quality Street from Mrs Hudson. "She thinks you need feeding."

Even the brand new, military grade wristwatch from Mycroft. "It's probably got a tracking device in it. But it does mean he likes you. A watch is the kind of present you buy family members."

So John was fully prepared for another analytical onslaught when he came to the last couple of gifts. A large squishy package wrapped in paper with ice skating penguins on it. TO JOHN, FROM SHERLOCK. It was a jumper. By the looks of it, a very expensive air-force blue cable knit jumper. John tried it on over his pyjama top. It was a perfect fit.

"I had it made for you. I chose the colour because I thought it would go rather nicely with your eyes."

"Thank you." John opened the next present. It was a pair of black silk boxer shorts with a small Hippo embroidered on the left leg. The initials JHW were worked into the Hippo's side.

"I believe they are called lucky pants. I had them design the monogram specially. Unbelievable as it seems, Hippos are not a standard pattern."

"Okay." John liked his presents. Was touched by the uniqueness of the gifts Sherlock had got him, and was actually quite surprised. "Thank you."

"You're wondering what the significance of the gifts is?"

"Yes. Actually."

"Well I must confess it was one of those times when the reason behind both gifts is purely selfish. You have that jumper because I thought you would look rather nice in it, and be rather nice to cuddle whilst you were wearing it. And I bought you the underwear because I thought you would look rather nice in those when you weren't wearing the jumper. Both of them are unique, made specially to fit you, so no one else can ever wear them. They are entirely, most sincerely yours. As am I"

"Oh fine then!" John smiled. Because only Sherlock could turn two mundane presents like a jumper and pants, into something wonderful, and unique. Rather like he had done with a battle damaged John Watson the first time he met him. "Do you want to give the jumper's cuddle-ability a go then?"

"That's not a real word John."

"No but it ought to be." And Sherlock decided very soon afterwards that John was entirely correct.


	47. Alone in the Dark

John had eaten far too much leftover Christmas dinner and was really hoping no one wanted him to move. Possibly ever again. He was very comfortable in his own private food coma on the sofa watching the firelight dancing in the grate, whilst he wondered if he would be able to do his jeans up by the next day.

Sherlock of course did not really understand the principle of a relaxing Christmas and had been pacing up and down. Playing his violin. He'd visited Mycroft twice. Mainly to annoy him and to take him some of Mrs Hudson's mince pies. This would seem to some as a genuinely nice gesture. Sherlock had done it merely to sabotage Mycroft's diet. And now Sherlock was back. He looked a little glum as he slid down the arm of the sofa.

"How's Mycroft?"

"Drunk and maudlin. Which means he's no fun to annoy. You can't really annoy someone who's already upset. There's no challenge in it."

"What's he upset about?"

"His friend Nick."

"What's he done?"

"He died." John sat up a little further.

"Not recently. Years ago. And now every Christmas he sits on his own, drinks an entire bottle of seven hundred quid brandy in one go and mourns him."

"He must have been a good friend."

"I think he was his only friend. He's certainly the only person Mycroft has ever loved."

"Nick? Nicholas? The boy's grave we went to see. With the frog?"

"Very good John." Sherlock squeezed John a little tighter. "Mycroft and I, had a quite horrible childhood. It was clinical. There were expectations and obligations. We were both clever. We were both different. There was very little Joy in our childhood. And then one day Mycroft brought Nicholas home with him. It was like someone had torn down all the shutters and curtains and flooded everywhere with light. And then he died and it was all dark again."

"You loved him too?" John really tried to keep the note of jealousy out of his voice.

"You couldn't not love Nicholas. I spent nearly thirty years waiting for someone to turn the light back on. And then I met you. You bought me a star. A light in the darkness." Sherlock's shoulders began to shake as he snuggled against John's leftover filled belly and sobbed.

"It's all right."

"No it isn't John. Because now Mycroft's all alone in the dark." And John realised just how much those two brothers really cared for each other.


	48. Guardian Angel

Sherlock was pacing up and down. John could hear him. The soft pad-pad of bare feet on floor boards. He'd started his pacing whilst John was in the bath, letting the hot water soak away the winter stiffness from his shoulder and leg. He was still pacing when john emerged wrapped in a fluffy white towel, the hair on his chest still damp. Sherlock continued pacing up and down. John understood he needed to be left alone. Alone with whatever thoughts were bothering him. Although John had a good idea what it was.

John beat a retreat to his bedroom and lay down on the bed, relaxing on clean sheets and letting sleep slowly wash over him. Everything felt better with clean sheets. John was half way between awake and asleep, somewhere in the moment just as you start dreaming and he was walking through a beautiful Churchyard bathed in sunlight. It could really have been any time at all in history. John tried to look down at himself, wondering if this was another of his "other Sherlock" dreams. The clock chimed four O'clock in the afternoon, and somewhere in the distance John knew there would be a cricket match in progress, and probably honey still for tea.

He noticed the small boy in his grey school uniform, sat in a corner of the churchyard, by the wall. Head down. The boy was thin and pale, his unruly curls flattened where his discarded School cap had been stuck onto his head. His white shirt front was spotted with the dark brown stains of a drying nosebleed.

"It's not fair." John heard the boy say in a voice that was unbroken, but with a touch of huskiness about it that said puberty wasn't far away. "Why won't they just leave me alone? I just want everyone to go away."

"No you don't." John heard another voice say. Its unseen owner an older boy, but still young. "No one really wants to be alone. It just takes a while to realise that." The younger boy paid no attention. And slowly he got to his feet, picking up his satchel and cap and walking out of the churchyard, leaving John standing on his own. John looked around, the other boy nowhere to be seen. Dreams were obviously strange things. And John turned to walk out of the elderly wooden gate when he saw, very briefly a boy of about sixteen standing by the wall. The boy was smiling, looking at John with bright green eyes. He raised his hand and waved. John found himself waving back.

"I can't leave here." The boy explained. "Can you make sure he's alright? Make sure he's not alone?"

John was just about to reply when he was woken from his half dream by an almighty crash from downstairs. He practically jumped down the stairs in his hurry to get to Sherlock. Finding his flatmate sat on the floor, head bowed, his hand shaking as he waited for a vein to rise in his arm.

"Sherlock. Put that down." Sherlock raised heavy liquid eyes. And briefly acknowledged the needle with a shrug. "I mean it." Slowly Sherlock's trembling hand lowered the needle to the floor.

"Just leave me alone John."

"No. Not going to happen. Sorry. I was told to make sure you weren't alone."

"Who told you that?"

"I don't know who he is. But he obviously loves you. The same as I do. Maybe he's your guardian angel." John kicked the Syringe away and held on to Sherlock very tightly.

"There's no such thing as Guardian Angels." But Sherlock couldn't help wonder how John had been alerted to his drug taking. And John couldn't help wonder what the hell had made that crash.


	49. Vigil

John had done his fair share of guard duty. In basic training it was handed out as a punishment, or perhaps a test of character. John had been singled out on his first day as the Sergeant had walked along the lines and stopped, shaking his head as he looked down at John, who was a clear four inches shorter than the next shortest man in the line. He had been assigned guard duty for being short. He felt that was a little unfair.

John had also had his fair share of sleepless nights. His record was sixty seven hours without sleep. One horrible day that stretched into three horrible days as the casualties kept coming, and they put sand down on the floor to stop themselves slipping on the blood and John and his fellow surgeons had operated on the countless wounded not even noticing that Tuesday had turned into Thursday, the passage of time marked only by the pile of empty coffee cups and Red Bull cans.

And John had dealt with the fall out of the dead and wounded. The relatives grieving and angry that their loved ones were coming home to them in a box. The wounded and crippled who wanted to know why they hadn't been left to die, why they had been returned with parts missing and damaged. Why?

And of course John had experienced the whole of it firsthand. Why had he got a bloody great hole in his shoulder? Why did it have to be his left shoulder? Why was everything suddenly so bloody difficult, he couldn't even wipe his arse without help. And most of all why was he suddenly so useless?

And now he was standing guard again. Knowing he couldn't fall asleep, and wondering if he had done enough, or if in the morning his patient would be screaming at him that he should have just let him die. And John would realise once again that he was useless. Really. Because a Doctor could never stop death. Only slow it down. And what good was that?

Sherlock was asleep. His cravings for a fix stemmed by the high strength tranquilizers Mycroft had thoughtfully had delivered to John's surgery. But John knew it wasn't going to stop them forever, just slow them down, put them off until the next time. And what good was that?

John curled up in the armchair. He wasn't going to sleep, just trying to get comfortable. He pulled a blanket closer around his shoulders and stroked Frank's nose. Frank was also used to late night vigils, having watched over John most of his life.

"What do I do Frank? Because right now I'm useless. I'm a doctor; I should be able to fix this." The green hippo looked back with gentle eyes. Sometimes John almost thought Frank really did understand.

"Some things can't be fixed right? You just have to do your best and make sure you're there." John paused. "I do love him. Really." And John thought it might have been the light in the room, or his sleep deprived brain, but for a tiny moment John could have sworn that Frank had just winked at him.


	50. The Other Mr Holmes

Curled up in an armchair was not the best place to sleep. Even for someone as short as John. And very soon his spine was protesting at being curled round into an unnatural position. His right foot had gone to sleep, as had his right knee. And unfortunately for John his bladder was wide awake and demanding attention. He hated to leave Sherlock, even for a moment, but he really had to go to the bathroom before he wet himself. In a final act of sleep deprived desperation John placed Frank on the side of the bed to watch Sherlock till he got back. He felt better. Although he also knew it was the first sign he was probably going insane.

The living room was in darkness except for the glow from the embers in the fire. And John didn't notice on his way to the bathroom the tall figure sat watching the dancing, dying light from the armchair. Which was probably as well, because when he came out of the bathroom he did notice. With a full bladder his resulting shock might have proved very embarrassing.

"Mycroft? How did you get in here?"

"I have a key."

"Right. What can I do for you?"

"Just checking Sherlock's all right."

"Yes. Yes he's fine. Sleeping."

"Tranquilised?"

"Yes."

"I see. But he's all right?" John noticed the hypodermic laying on the floor by the fire. In his haste to sort Sherlock out he had forgotten it.

"Yes. He didn't take anything. I got to him before he could. He's bored."

"John, you really don't have to make excuses for him. Other people get bored. Other people are lonely. They don't resort to sticking needles in their arms."

"Yes. But I think we both know Sherlock isn't other people."Something was bothering John. "How did you know he was in trouble? Did he call you?"

"No."

"Oh God. You've got the flat under surveillance? Please tell me there isn't a camera in the bathroom."

"No. I do not have your flat under surveillance. At least not inside."

"So how? Or did you just turn up on the off chance?"

"I don't know how. I just knew." Mycroft was not going to tell John Watson that he had a strange dream, which even as woke from it he found himself forgetting. And now there was a fleeting memory of a churchyard and a warm summer's afternoon. And a terrible feeling of emptiness. But overwhelmingly there was the feeling that he needed to go and check on Sherlock.

"I see." John was not going to tell Mycroft Holmes that he had a strange dream, which was now crumbling in his head, leaving a faint picture of a Churchyard. And a lost boy with green eyes. And the overwhelming feeling that Sherlock was a lost boy as well. He wasn't John's, he was just rented.

John moved towards the door of the bedroom to check on Sherlock.

"He'll be fine John. I'm sure that Hippo is doing an admirable job." John blushed.

"You heard that then?"

"Believe me. It's by no means the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Mycroft. Can you tell me about the boy in the churchyard?" John found himself being burnt by two painfully china blue eyes.

"It's a very long story. I suggest you make us some tea."


	51. Brotherly Love

John and Mycroft had spent several hours talking and the sky was beginning to pink with daylight when John stood to put on the kettle for another cup of tea. He sensed Mycroft hadn't told him everything. But then he didn't expect him to. John had always pegged Mycroft as a fairly cold individual. He supposed you would have to be when your job entailed making so many life or death decisions. No room for sentimentality. So John had been genuinely surprised that the elder Holmes brother had given away as much as he had.

There had been no personal revelations or declarations of never ending love. Simply a series of factual statements. Statements that by their very economy, spoke greater volumes. So now John knew that the boy buried in the churchyard, the real one, and maybe the dream one as well, was called Nicholas, he had been at school with Mycroft. He had been friends with Sherlock. He had died. Young. Mycroft had sat in silence for twenty minutes. Either unable to speak, or not wanting too. Words were not really necessary.

John sensed that Mycroft had learnt to deal with this bereavement by becoming the cold, calculating, steely hearted politician that the outside world knew. Mr Dependable. The one everyone else went to in a crisis. Governments, countries, bombs could fall around him and he would keep his head and get the job done. But John suspected that the British Government's Rock of Ages might have a soft centre.

Sherlock it seemed had spiralled out in ever erratic circles from a confused little boy who knew what death meant. Understood its process and conclusion. But had no concept of its wider implications. The body ceased to function, the bacteria came in, the body rotted until there was nothing left but bones, and even the bones would go eventually. It said so in all the books. But the books didn't say that there would be a hole in your life. Or what to do with that hole. Nine year old Sherlock had no idea what love was. He only knew that he really liked Nick, and wished that he was his friend not Mycroft's. How that would have developed as he got older, had Nick lived, no one could know. There was just that horrible gaping hole.

So Sherlock had tried to fill it with drugs and violence and meaningless relationships where countless times Mycroft had received a phone call from Sherlock, drunk, high, concussed, abused and had to go and rescue him from numerous unsavoury places. And rather than gratitude, got cursed and spat at.

"So why did you keep picking him up?" John placed a fresh mug of tea down for Mycroft.

"Because he's my brother. It's my job. And it's what Nick would have done. "Mycroft narrowed his eyes and took a sip of tea. "What would you do Doctor Watson? As a man who always comes running when he gets called." John blushed a little. It was true. The silence was longer this time.

"John. You do love him don't you?"

"Yes. But it's complicated. He needs me. I know that. He wants to be with me. But I don't think he really knows what love means. I don't blame him for that. I can accept it. His work comes first."

"He told you he was married to his work? Don't believe him. He's spent so long looking for someone to take Nick's place. And now he's found you he doesn't know what to do. So he thinks his body is craving drugs. When what it actually wants is you. You are his fix."

"What about you though? "

"Sherlock's heart was broken. But he still has one. And you can fix it. Mine? I gave Nicholas my heart when I was fifteen. My heart is buried in that grave with him. It will probably be rotted away to nothing by now. I am just as heartless as my brother always says I am. I don't love any more, I simply mourn. "

"And does it get easier? Does it hurt less as time goes by?"

"No. I just get better at dealing with it. Like so many things. Practice."

A noise made John turn. Sherlock stood in the doorway of his room.

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing of any importance Sherlock. Remember Doctor Watson. Practice." Mycroft smiled as he made his exit.


	52. About Nothing

John needed to take a long walk. On his own. Sherlock had been called in to look at a crime scene by LeStrade, so John felt he was being sufficiently looked after fro John to slip away for an hour or two. It was getting chilly and John dug his hands into his pockets as he pondered the enigma of the Holmes brothers. The information he'd got from Mycroft had just confused him further, rather than giving the clarity he was hoping for.

John now understood that he was a replacement for someone else. And maybe if that someone else was still alive, Sherlock wouldn't have even noticed John. And John would still be limping along on his own. Perhaps Sherlock would have never become the world's only consulting detective. And then perhaps there would be a taxi driver zipping around London still killing people. Countless criminals getting away, literally with murder. James Moriarty free to do whatever he wanted. And John on his own.

Alternatively, how would Sherlock and Mycroft had settled it? And who would Nick have chosen? How would Sherlock have reacted to not getting what he wanted? Would he have still gone off on his blazing trail of self destruction? Would him and John's paths have ever crossed?

And the most horrible thought of all as John trudged along, the rain slowly turning to sleet. Was John anything more to Sherlock than the ultimate way to annoy Mycroft? The ultimate act of vengeance on the big brother you blamed, albeit wrongly, for your misfortunes. John couldn't help but notice some physical similarities between himself and the dead boy. Is that why Sherlock had instantly asked him to share a flat? And is that why there was such a sharp intake of breath from Mycroft on their first meeting?

John was wet and cold by the time he got back to Baker Street. The lights were on, which meant Sherlock was back. John was pleased that the fire had been lit, as he slipped off his soggy shoes and socks and warmed his toes.

"John! You're back. I was worried." Sherlock was in the kitchen prodding the toaster.

"You were worried?"

"Yes. I was expecting you to be here. You've been for a walk, a much longer one than you were planning, otherwise you'd have worn your boots."

"Don't. Just don't start." John really was not in the mood, his head too cold and full of niggling doubts. And something else. Sadness. John was actually sad. Sad that in order for life to be as it was, a sixteen year old boy had died. And sad that the small event had such far reaching consequences.

"You're sad John. Why are you sad?" Sherlock had stopped poking the toaster with a knife.

"I...nothing." Sherlock was stood right in front of him now, covered in burnt toast crumbs.

"Sometimes I'm sad about nothing as well. I understand." John allowed himself to fall into Sherlock's warm embrace. He realised that all that really mattered is what had actually happened. Not what could have happened.


	53. What Love Looks Like

John couldn't quite remember how it had happened. He was fairly sure that he had been looking over autopsy reports. Report after report. Trying to find the link. Trying to see where the mistakes had been made. The lights in the Scotland Yard Archive room were harsh, and the chairs were plastic, uncomfortable. The kind you got in schools. Although John supposed Sherlock's school would have had beautiful hand carved mahogany or something.

Sherlock had been pacing. Which he knew drove John mad. But he did it anyway. Twenty three hours of looking at case after case. Death after death. It was really very depressing. Even Sally Donovan had taken pity on them and had brought Coffee and Sandwiches. Sherlock had made John eat one first just to check they weren't poisoned. John almost wished they had been.

When John woke up he was laying on the couch in Greg LeStrade's office. And he truly had no idea how he got there. He was curled up into a ball, covered over with Sherlock's coat, his own coat neatly folded into a pillow. His shoes had been removed and placed carefully on the floor and he noticed his phone, keys and wallet had been stowed in his left shoe. John blinked and checked his watch. He had been asleep for three hours.

"Sherlock?" The tall figure sat on the floor next to the shoes was flicking through a pile of reports.

"You're awake. Good. You've been snoring. It makes concentrating very difficult. He doesn't usually snore Greg." LeStrade nodded from behind his laptop.

"How did we get here?"

"You fell asleep. I carried you." A truly horrible picture was forming in John's head.

"You carried me? From Archive to CID. You carried me!"

"Yes. And you've put on half a stone over Christmas." By this point John was sitting up. Blushing scarlet. LeStrade sniggered and then tried to pretend it wasn't him.

"You carried me?" he knew he was shouting.

"You're not that heavy John." Sherlock obviously thought he was helping.

"Oh my God. Did anyone see you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes it matters. " LeStrade had closed the lid of his laptop to watch and was clearly enjoying himself.

"Why? Oh your reputation as a tough army doctor? Don't worry. No one saw me carrying you."

"Good. Thank you."

"However quite a few people took pictures when you fell asleep on the floor of the archive room sucking your thumb." As if to illustrate this, LeStrade turned his laptop around and brought a close up of John fast asleep and sucking his thumb, onto the screen.

"Can you zoom out?" And Greg happily obliged, revealing the complete picture. John was asleep. With his head pillowed on Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock seemed to be paying no attention at all as he was caught, head bowed, holding a folder in his right hand. His left hand however was resting on John's cheek, captured for posterity mid-stroke. And there was a soft smile of contentment playing over his sharp features. And John was speechless. So that was what Sherlock looked like when he watched John sleep. All those nights, all those times when John had woken to find Sherlock quietly paying him no heed, but secretly giving him his undivided attention. That was what love looked like.


	54. Brothers in Armchairs

Sherlock watched his brother sleeping in the armchair by the fire. Normally he would have been contemplating shaving Mycroft's head, or better still, half his head. And there had been the time Sherlock had drawn a smiley face on Mycroft's forehead in permanent marker. How either of them was still alive after that atrocity he did not know.

The Holmes brother's rarely came to blows, both preferring to hurl insults at one another. A punch in the face hurt, but only lasted as long as the bruises. Telling your big brother he was getting fat sowed a seed of doubt in his head that lasted forever. So much more satisfying. But when they did have a royal punch up it was a sight to behold. The Marker Pen Incident had resulted in Sherlock being hung out of the window of his childhood bedroom by his legs with Mycroft asking for a good reason not to drop him onto the flagstones below. That was what usually happened when Mycroft was foolish enough to fall asleep in Sherlock's presence.

But now Sherlock just watched him. He wondered if Mycroft had dreams? In sleep the stern expression, the carefully controlled facade of order was gone and replaced with the ghost of innocence. The Mycroft Sherlock remembered from all those years ago. As children they had rubbed along fairly well together, possibly because with the age difference and Mycroft at prep School, and then Harrow they only saw one another for holidays. Sherlock remembered being very proud of his big brother. His tall, handsome, so very clever big brother. In Sherlock's head Mycroft was like the Pirate King. He so wanted to be like him when he grew up.

And then it had all gone wrong. Mycroft was at University and Sherlock had just started at Harrow. That first day. It was the first time Sherlock had heard the word "Poofter" he didn't know what it meant. Only that some elder boys were saying that he was "That Poofter Mycroft Holmes little brother." And that he was going to get a good kicking. And he had blamed Mycroft for it. He had never told anyone, especially not Mycroft, especially not once he found out what that word meant.

He had blamed Mycroft for a lot of things that weren't his fault.

And it was only now he realised that if he had said something to Mycroft, then his big brother would have marched into the school and given the bullies a good kicking back. Or made them disappear. It was all part of Mycroft's strict policy that no one, absolutely no one was allowed to mess with Sherlock but him.

Sherlock continued to watch his brother sleeping; the flicker from the fire darting tiny sparks of red gold in Mycroft's auburn hair. Mycroft stretched a little in his sleep and smiled, his eyes moving under the lids. Yes he was dreaming. And Sherlock knew exactly what he would be dreaming about. He moved his chair so it was next to Mycroft's, poked the fire and watched the flames dancing and laughing in the grate. Very carefully, so as not to wake him, Sherlock took his brother's hand. Mycroft's smile deepened. And slowly, Sherlock drifted off to sleep.


	55. Going Home

It was the first time Sherlock had taken John to his childhood home. And John had been quite awe struck when he saw the sweeping driveway lined with trees leading up to the huge house, with its Gothic turrets and pink sandstone walls. Quite a revelation for a boy who grew up in a three bedroom semi in Sussex. He wasn't quite sure what to say. Sherlock peered out of the car window. Silently looking up at the old house, remembering.

"Mummy's away. In France. There should only be the staff left."

"You have staff?"

"Of course. That was my room up there." He pointed to a window overlooking the courtyard at the front of the house. "And that was Mycroft's." He pointed to a room further over and higher up, in one of the towers.

The interior was no less impressive than the outside. A grand staircase sweeping predictably upwards from a wood panelled hallway. Room after room, filled with expensive antique furniture, paintings, priceless precious family relics. John wondered how many had been broken in the course of Sherlock's childhood.

"We weren't allowed in most of the rooms when were children." Sherlock answered John's unspoken question. "It was like growing up in a museum. Aren't we lucky to have such nice things? But you can never touch them. Everything was look but don't touch. Even us." John knew he meant Mycroft and himself.

They walked past a gallery of family portraits. Here and there John could see Sherlock's cheekbones, Mycroft's nose, variations on the theme of tall and beautiful.

"Who's that?" John pointed at a picture of a man in hunting clothes who looked very much like a fat version of Mycroft.

"That's our Grandfather. Father's father. You can't help but feel sorry for the poor man's horse." Sherlock led John up the stairs.

"This was my room." The room was impersonal now, the scars John imagined on the walls freshly painted, the wooden floor scrubbed. The furniture simple. A metal bedstead, the bed made with fresh linen. A large wooden desk. Really nothing left to say it had ever been Sherlock's room. Something about that really bothered John.

The carried on up a narrower flight of stairs, probably right to the top of the house, where the walls seemed to take on strange shapes.

"This was Mycroft's room." Sherlock pushed the door open. The room was just as blank as his own. Slightly larger, with a fireplace and two beds instead of one. But no trace left of the boy that used to sleep there. It was strange to John, when his own bedroom at his mother's house had been more or less exactly as he had left it, right down to the Spandau Ballet posters on the wall.

"Were you happy here?" John thought how as a child he would have given one of his kidneys to have lived in a house like this.

"Once. For a little while." Sherlock looked around the room, taking note of the creaking floorboards and the sounds of the wind blowing down the chimney. "Mummy was very upset when she realised she was not going to have any Grandchildren. Mycroft did try. But as you can imagine it was a disaster."

"I'd rather not imagine actually." Sherlock was on his knees by the fireplace and he pulled up a loose floorboard.

"Mycroft's not so secret hiding place." Sherlock peered into the gloomy hole. "Empty. Like Mycroft. Like me. I really hate this place John. "

"They say home is the place that when you have to go there, they have to take you in. But I think it's more the place where the people you love are."

John looked into the hole in the floor, wondering what Mycroft would have stashed away as a child. Wondering what would be important to him. He reached an arm in, ignoring the furry dust and cobwebs of centuries and felt his hand close around a piece of paper. As he withdrew his hand he realised he was holding a photograph, faded and crumpled with the years.

"See nothing's ever quite empty." The picture showed two teenage boys laughing, the taller of the two, his auburn hair sticking up untidily, had his arm around the shoulder of a shorter boy wearing a Raiders of the Lost Ark t-shirt. The shorter boy was holding a much younger boy in his arms, a boy with dark curly hair and strange shaped grey eyes, who was helpless with laughter as he squirmed. On the back in faded, neat handwriting: Christmas 1981. Mikey, Sherlock and Me. He held out the photograph for Sherlock to see.

"As I said. For a little while." For a little while the people he loved were in this house. But then they all went away. Sherlock looked at John, then at the picture, and then back to John. John simply smiled at him and took his hand.

"Come on Sherlock. Let's go home."


	56. Physician Heal Thyself

John tried to stand up, only to discover his legs were not really cooperating. Neither were his eyes, Or his head. His throat was burning. So was he. All he could focus on was getting to the fridge and the carton of cold orange juice he had placed in there the night before. Yes, thought his inner doctor Vitamin C, a couple of Paracetamol and back to bed. Nice and simple. It was just a bit of a cold. John wasn't the kind of guy who exaggerated. Never said he was dying of man-flu when he had only got a little sniffle. That was all it was. A sniffle. He reached the fridge, grasping the handle in both hands and almost falling backwards as the door opened. He squinted in the bright light from inside the fridge. Looking for the orange juice, vaguely aware that he was now both dripping with sweat and shivering with cold. He reached out to move a severed something out of the way and blacked out.

Sherlock's return to Baker Street, triumphant at yet another solved case, was short lived as he burst through the door of the flat and saw the heap of Watson on the kitchen floor, a carton of orange juice spilled around him and some left over pasta smeared on his pyjamas. Sherlock had spent his day at the mortuary sifting through body parts, Sherlock had a clear, analytical mind that only dealt with facts. Sherlock was always in control. But faced with John, collapsed. Unmoving. Sherlock Holmes panicked. He was reduced to an idiot who didn't even have the sense to check John was breathing. The data his brain had processed was: John. Floor. Not Moving. Dead. And so Sherlock did what he always did in circumstances beyond his considerable control. He called his brother.

When Mycroft arrived, some ten minutes later, having been able to understand nothing of the garbled mess of words his little brother had spluttered and stammered down the phone at him, John was still on the floor. Sherlock was sat in the doorway looking at him. Hugging his knees. Watching John for any sign of life.

"What happened? Sherlock?"

"Found him. Like this."

"Have you checked to see if he's breathing? Have you called an ambulance?" Mycroft took his brother's silence to mean no. He was relieved to see John's chest rising and falling and moved over to check him more thoroughly. He shook him by the shoulders. "John? Doctor Watson? Can you hear me?"

"Eh?" John answered groggily. Mycroft could feel his burning hot skin through his juice soaked pyjamas. He turned to his brother.

"Sherlock. He's not dead. I think he has the flu. Now let's get him cleaned up and into bed. And I will call Doctor Stamford." It took ten minutes for the Homes brothers to strip John of his pyjamas, put him into clean ones and install him in Sherlock's bed. John let them do all of it with barely a murmur of protest other than a feeble "No really I'm fine." Mike Stamford arrived and diagnosed the flu, gave John an injection and advised he drink plenty of fluids and get some rest.

"Now Sherlock. What was this really all about?" Mycroft's Icy Blue eyes looked into his brothers grey ones. Sherlock shuddered under his scrutiny.

"Nothing."

"Really? "

"Really. I panicked for a moment. I thought he was... dead." Sherlock nearly choked on that last word.

"Dead? So why did you call me?" Mycroft already knew the answer. But he wanted to hear Sherlock say it any way.

"You make it sound like John doesn't matter to you." Sherlock temper was rising.

"Of course John matters to me. For God's sake he's single handedly turned you into an almost normal member of society. The man is a saint. But John isn't the only thing matters to me."

"He's all that matters to me. I thought you of all people would understand."

"Of course I understand Sherlock. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. Would I?" Of course Mycroft understood. That heart stopping moment Sherlock must have had when he saw John on the floor. When he thought that the small amount of happiness he had been allowed was over. When he thought he was alone again. Of course Mycroft understood. But having someone who understood what it was like to be a prisoner in the dark was not the same thing as running free with the person who released you from the prison.

Sherlock smiled an apology at his brother. And then went to go and get Frank. He sensed Frank would be more use than him at the present time.


	57. Chicken Soup

When John awoke from his flu induced sleep, he was still feeling decidedly on the wrong side of poorly. Somewhere behind his itchy eyes and razor blade filled throat he had the tiniest recollection of being carried to his bed by Mycroft Holmes. Which of course was impossible. He was certain that Mycroft had people to do that sort of thing for him. He also had a vague memory of being stripped of his pyjamas by Sherlock and Mycroft. He tried to recall which type of flu it was that made you hallucinate as well. Because he was still wearing his pyjamas. Only when he looked at his arm it was no longer wearing the black t-shirt with the amusing glow in the dark bones, but the plain grey t-shirt .

He sat up a little, noticing that he was in Sherlock's room not his. Noticing that Frank was sat watching him on the other pillow, a concerned expression on his furry face. Noticing that the bedside table was cluttered with a glass of orange juice. A cold cup of tea. A damp flannel. Tissues. Two new paperbacks. And what looked like the entire contents of a late night pharmacy. Or one hell of an overdose, depending on your point of view. He rested his head back on to the pillow and reached out for Frank. Yes he was forty years old. Yes he was a doctor. Yes he had medals and citations for bravery. But right now he felt very poorly and wanted his hippo. And he didn't care what anyone thought. Frank obviously agreed as he squished himself in to John's slightly sweaty neck.

In the kitchen of Baker Street Sherlock Holmes was looking, for the eleventh time at the book. And a terrible feeling was slowly seeping up his body from his toes. He didn't understand. His brain was malfunctioning. The earlier upset over John had caused some fatal overload. The feeling had reached just below his naval and was threatening to continue until it engulfed him when he decided to bring in expert help. He thundered down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's flat and banged on the door.

"Sherlock? What it is darling? What's the matter?" She had never seen him look so pale. So un-Sherlock like.

"Mrs Hudson. John's not well. I need your help. It's an emergency."

"Wouldn't you be better off calling a Doctor? What about Michael?"

"No it's not that kind of emergency. Will you come?" And she followed him back up to the flat.

Half an hour later Sherlock's emergency had been dealt with and Mrs Hudson had returned to her flat, shaking her head. Sometimes they were such silly boys. Very sweet. But they did get excited over nothing.

When John next woke up, he found himself curled up tightly, hugging Frank. The light outside seemed darker. He wondered what time it was. And struggled into the sitting position. Shivering a little, noticing his hands were shaking.

"Sherlock?" He called out. Throat still sore, head still fuzzy. There was the sound of something smashing in the kitchen and a few seconds later Sherlock had flung the door open.

"What's the matter? Are you all right?"

"Yes. I just wondered what time it was?"

"It's just after four." Sherlock sagged against the doorframe. "I made you Chicken soup." Hew indicted a bowl on top of the dresser.

"You made soup? Chicken soup? With actual chicken?" John figured he was still hallucinating.

"Yes. I looked it up. Apparently chicken soup is very good for people with flu. The online evidence is overwhelming. Mrs Hudson helped. I got a little confused with the recipe. I think it might be cold now." Sherlock sat on the bed and looked at John intently.

"What? It's just the flu Sherlock. It's nothing serious."

"When I got home and found you on the floor. I thought. I thought you were dead. I thought it was all over."

"Thought what was all over?"

"Everything. You are my everything. It took me so long to find you .And if I lost you..." he trailed off.

"You will never lose me Sherlock. No matter what happens I will always find you. Now, how about some soup?" He didn't know about the soup, but he knew Sherlock always made him feel better.


	58. Tailor Made

**Warning Potential Spoilers for S2 Ep1.**

Even something as simple as doing your laundry could become fraught with danger if you shared a flat with Sherlock. John had long since learnt to check the washing machine drum and the detergent drawer for unspeakable things before starting. It was so much easier than discovering halfway through a spin cycle that the bumping coming from the machine wasn't a two pound coin you left in your pocket, but someone's foot. In fairness Sherlock had been very apologetic. Well he hadn't actually said he was sorry. But John had got home from work to discover two brand new pairs of jeans on his bed. Two very expensive pairs of jeans that John had been so horrified by the price tags of that he hadn't dared wear them. The same went for the three designer shirts he had found hanging in his Wardrobe.

John really did need to do his laundry more often. Usually he waited until he had nothing left but a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with holes in it, which should both have probably been in the wash as well. Sherlock never seemed to do laundry. John assumed it was one of the things Mycroft took care of. Sherlock never seemed to do clothes shopping either. Every so often he would appear in new suit, or shirt. Probably another thing that was down to Mycroft.

John carefully folded his clothes as he took them out of the tumble dryer. Despite his army training, he was of the strong belief that life was far too short to iron anything you could get away with not Ironing. Especially duvet covers. In fact anything except shirts. It was whilst he was putting his neatly folded pile of t-shirts and underwear away that his phone beeped.

SMS: John. Come at Once. Scotland Yard. SH

And John realised all of his jeans and trousers were still in the wash. He had no choice. It was the stuff Sherlock bought him or nothing.

He was surprised. Very surprised to discover that everything fitted him not just well, but perfectly. John had been used to off the peg stuff not fitting him. He always seemed to be between sizes. But these. Well these could have been made for him. Dark blue jeans with carefully tapered legs, which actually made him look taller, and a mid-blue shirt, fitted but not tight, the sleeves the perfect length. It was only then that he noticed the tag on one of the shirts still hanging in the wardrobe:

**Lucifer's of Saville Row, Gentlemen's Tailoring: Dr J H Watson. Customer No: 1895**

He looked at himself in the mirror. Wondering how Sherlock knew what his measurements were. Wondering rather uncomfortably if he had been measured whilst he was asleep? And then he remembered. A little trick Sherlock had done once, a safe combination, That Woman's measurements, one glance and he had accurately guessed them. He must have done the same with John. John smiled at his reflection. Somehow it made John feel very flattered that his measurement were stored in the same vault of the Holmes brain as the delicious Ms Adler's.

He arrived at Scotland Yard to find Sherlock in a heated discussion with DI Bradstreet. Bradstreet looked very pleased to see John. Sherlock stopped mid sentence to look John up and down.

"Sorry." He said. Finally apologising for the foot in the washing incident. And looking very pleased that John was finally wearing his new clothes.

"Thank you." John replied, because he realised the effort on Sherlock's part to do something as pedestrian as picking out clothes.

"Come on John. Let's go." Sherlock took off running out of the door, knowing John would follow. John shrugged at Bradstreet and hurtled after Sherlock.

Sometimes it was the little things that meant the most.


	59. Anniversary

It was a little after three am, and John squinted at his alarm clock wondering what could possibly be going on that needed his attention so early in the morning.

"John. Wake up." Sherlock very gently shook his shoulder. His left shoulder. The Bad Shoulder. Sherlock always treated that one part of John as though it could break at any moment. As though it was only the web of scar tissue, the neat two inch scar on his shoulder blade, and the eight inch square mess of skin grafts and twisted flesh, that held John Watson together and in this world. As though if that broke again, so would John.

"Sherlock? What?" John burrowed a little deeper in to his pillow.

"John. I need you to come with me."

"Its three O'clock!"

"Yes it is. I need you to come with me. Get dressed." The gentle pressure on his shoulder was gone and the room was empty. No further discussion. Sherlock needed him.

Blearily John appeared in the kitchen. Sherlock handed him a cup of tea which he gulped half of before stopping and sniffing suspiciously. Better late than never. Sherlock looked the tiniest bit offended. He handed John his coat.

Downstairs a large black car was parked and waiting.

"Sherlock? What's going on? Is Mycroft all right?" John asked as they got in and the car pulled smoothly away.

"I neither know nor care. Although I'm sure he will be touched at your concern. As he's listening to us right now." Sherlock banged his hand on the roof of the car. His phone beeped.

SMS: Grow up Sherlock. M.

SMS: Stop eavesdropping you fat git. Xx S

The driver pressed a button. John presumed the in-car microphone had been switched off. They continued the journey in silence. Eventually the car stopped and John climbed out, only to find himself face to face with the London Eye. He wondered if they were meeting Mycroft. The elder Mr Holmes did seem to have a taste for the theatrical. He looked around but the familiar, tall be-suited figure was nowhere to be seen.

"Okay. What are we doing here?" John's hand was itching to reach for the gun stuck in the waistband of his jeans. Something was not quite right. In fact something was definitely weird.

"This way John." Sherlock lead him to an empty, waiting car on the giant wheel. Still no Mycroft. Mercifully no dead body either. No sniper's fireflies. No Moriarty. Just an empty car. And somehow that made John very nervous.

The wheel started moving. Slowly rising up over London. The city still in darkness, twinkling with street lights. In the distance the blue lights of the emergency services streaming down a street. Somebody's going to emergency, somebody's going to jail. And hopefully neither would involve him and Sherlock.

"Are you going to tell me? Why we're riding the London Eye at four in the morning? Or is this just one of those things that I don't need to know any details about until someone ties me to a chair?"

"I was hoping you'd know. That you'd remember." And Sherlock looked just a little bit hurt. A little bit confused. A little bit disappointed with John.

"What? Today?" John racked his brains. Not Sherlock's birthday. Not the anniversary of when they met. Today wasn't special in any way. John shook his head. Sherlock looked out over the city.

"It's three years ago today that you were shot in Afghanistan."

"Oh. Not really something I celebrate."

"And three years ago that you didn't die. Which I think you should celebrate." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Looking at John. Reading him. Gathering data. "Which I want to celebrate. I didn't know you then. You would have been just another name. Another number. But you lived. And now you are John Watson. My friend. And I'm very glad I know you now."

John turned to look out of the window. The lump in his throat was making it impossible for him to speak. He really could have done without the reminder. Without remembering that moment when he thought his whole life had come to nothing. And he found himself remembering a conversation from a couple of weeks ago when he said he had never been on the Eye. That the last time he went it was packed with people and he'd turned away. How he didn't like crowds. How somehow the claustrophobia of all those bodies made him feel like he was back in Afghanistan. He hadn't thought Sherlock had been listening.

Sherlock placed a hand very carefully on John's shoulder. And John suddenly realised this was probably the nicest thing any one had ever done for him.

"Thank you. When we get down can we have cake?"

"You're almost as bad as Mycroft, John." Sherlock's phone beeped.

SMS: Do shut up. M.


	60. Get Out of Jail Free

No one was quite sure what had happened. But the result of the chain of events was that Dr Anderson was sat on the floor of the Police Mortuary with his nose spread across his face like strawberry jam. And John Watson was being held back by Greg LeStrade, Simon Bradstreet and Ricky the Mortuary guy.

"Did you see that?"Anderson was spluttering. "Did you see that? He hit me. He assaulted me. I want to press charges."

And Greg LeStrade was faced with a dilemma. Technically Anderson was quite correct, he had been assaulted and he could ask for John to be arrested. Morally, Greg had often been inches from hitting the rat faced idiot himself on several occasions, and John had only found himself at the front of a very long queue that morning. But rules were rules. And of course John already had an ASBO.

Anderson was lead away to the first aid room, feebly clutching a wedge of tissue to his nose.

"John. What happened?" But John remained silent. "John?"

Xxxx

It had been the way he had said it. John was used to most of Scotland Yard, the ones that didn't understand, being rude about Sherlock. Most of them had learnt not to do it in front of John. But Anderson, who was terminally stupid, never learnt. Because even the greenest constable in the force knew not to refer to Sherlock as a "Freaky Poofter." in front of John Watson. And not to compound it by then asking "Who was the man and who was the woman?" And then not to sign your own death warrant by asking "Do you fancy his brother as well, Watson?" Terminal stupidity. One day it would be the death of Dr. Anderson.

And somehow, John, who had witnessed firsthand Sherlock not sleeping for three days, who had got precious little sleep himself whilst they had tried to solve the case. John who had witnessed Sherlock's anger, at himself, when another victim had been brought in to the mortuary, someone Sherlock hadn't been quick enough to save. John who had witnessed all of that just blew his stack when Anderson, who understood nothing made his snide little comments.

Sherlock had been half-way to Camden by the time he realised John wasn't with him.

Xxxx

He'd been in the cell for half an hour. Mainly to calm down. Greg had left him with tea and biscuits which wasn't exactly in the rules. Anderson was apparently still lamenting his broken nose. And John was still seething. Not even worried that he might get a GMC warning for this. Might get struck off- you couldn't have a Doctor who was unable to control his temper. The only thing John was worried about was Sherlock.

The door of the cell was unlocked. A rather harassed looking duty Sergeant was being followed by two sinister looking men in black suits. And when John was lead in to DI LeStrade's office he found Greg in conference with a short neatly built young man wearing two thousand pounds worth of Saville Row tailoring.

"Doctor Watson? Jonathan Denborough." He shook hands "I'm your Lawyer. Dr. Anderson won't be pressing charges. You're free to go." He smiled and left a slightly confused looking John in Greg's office.

"What he didn't mention was Dr Anderson seems to have disappeared." And John was sure Greg looked almost pleased about it. John looked out of the window and saw his "Lawyer" climbing into a familiar large black car.

Xxxx

When John returned to Baker Street he found Sherlock already there, stretched out on the sofa, pretending to be asleep. Obviously the case was closed.

"I know you're not asleep."

"Well observed."

"I got arrested."

"Defending my honour? Thank you John."

"Mycroft sent one of his People."

"Yes. I'm sure he did."

"You asked him to didn't you?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean John."

"LeStrade called you. You called Mycroft. Anderson's disappeared."

"Oh what a shame."

"You shouldn't do that. It was my mistake. I should have to face the consequences."

"No. Doesn't work like that John. Anyone who messes with the person I love gets destroyed. It's that simple. Mycroft agrees. It's a family thing."

"Family?"

"Yes John. They say you can't choose your family, only your friends. Both Mycroft and myself are of the opinion that is total rubbish." Sherlock's phone beeped.

SMS: Happy announcement Sherlock? M

SMS: Stop listening. Eat a donut or something. S

SMS: Tell John thank you. M

"My brother says thank you."

"What for? He was the one that bailed me out."

"It didn't escape his notice that you only hit Anderson once he had insulted Mycroft as well."

John smiled. It seemed he had family in high places.


	61. Running Scared

**Request for Virus-of-Blossoms**

John and Sherlock were doing what they did best. Running. Running for their lives. Dodging down alleyways and side streets, taking shortcuts across rooftops and up fire escapes. Sherlock had learnt to let John go first, just to make sure he could reach. It was so well practiced it was almost like dancing. Each of them knowing instinctively where the other would be. Where the other would go. And when Sherlock said "Run" John never asked "Why?" Total trust. Nothing more. Nothing less.

John wasn't quite sure why they were running this time. There had been no apparent danger. They weren't even really on a case, just tying up a few loose ends. But Sherlock had told him to run, so run he did.

They paused in an alleyway. Leaning against the grimy walls, fighting for breath. John leant forward, hands on his knees, willing himself to breathe normally, trying to force his lungs back into place.

"Sherlock? Have we lost them?" He choked out in between uncertain gulps of air.

"I don't think so. They don't give up easily." It always annoyed John how Sherlock never seemed to be as out of breath as him. Sherlock, who really did no exercise and smoked when he thought John wasn't paying attention, should have been wheezing and expiring on the floor. He was hardly breathing at all.

"Who are they?"

"Never mind. Come on." Sherlock glanced over John's head and took off in the opposite direction. Unquestioning John followed.

They ran for another five minutes before finally, finally they turned into Baker Street. In all honesty John was running on empty, he could feel his leg beginning to cramp. Four doors away from home. From safety, John stumbled and fell, his revolver skittering away from him as he tumbled. Sherlock was nearly at the door.

"Get inside." John gasped as he tried to regain his feet, but Sherlock was already coming back for him. Stooping to pick up the gun, Sherlock grabbed the back of John's jacket and hauled him to his feet, just as a large black car glided to a halt on the opposite side of the street. For a second John thought Sherlock was going to shoot at the rear passenger side window. John braced himself, the soldier's instincts to prepare himself, armed or not. And then Sherlock grabbed John and turned him away, so that Sherlock stood with his back to the mysterious car. Shielding him. Protecting him from the danger. John fought to swap places. No way. He took the bullets for Sherlock. Sherlock didn't take them for him.

And then Sherlock stooped down and kissed him. John stopped struggling. So surprised that he forgot what was happening. Forgot that at any moment they we're going to be killed. He was kissing Sherlock Homes, in public and in comparison death seemed like a baby step. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissed back. And when they finally broke the kiss, the black car was gone.

"Tea John?"

"Yes. Definitely."

Sherlock's phone beeped as he was putting the kettle on.

SMS: Sherlock, About bloody time. M

SMS: Mycroft, Stop following me. S


	62. The Final Problem

Sherlock had really done it this time. A mistimed, ill advised jump between buildings and John had been left helpless on the roof of one whilst Sherlock struggled to pull himself up on to the roof of the other. The biting cold numbing his fingers and the anti-burglar spikes stabbing his hands, every muscle in his shoulders on fire despite the cold. And then he had slipped. Fallen. And all John could do was watch.

Sherlock had landed awkwardly; his fall abruptly halted twenty feet from the ground by a fire escape. By the time John had got to him, and had run up the four flights of stairs, Sherlock's blood was already dripping through the holes in the staircase. He was still breathing. Just. But his leg was twisted horribly underneath him, broken for sure and one side of his face was smeared in blood and swollen. And John could do nothing. He called an ambulance, checked Sherlock's airway, kept him breathing, and held his hand, telling him it would be fine, that help was on its way. Everything was fine.

And now John had found himself moved from the darkness of the void between buildings into the bright white sterile hospital. The heart monitor singing an erratic rhythm and blues number which told John that Sherlock was not fine. The Oxygen, the blood, the whole lot. Something about a rare blood group- absolutely typical. It would be funny if it wasn't all so terrifying. It seemed John had only just found Sherlock, just begun to live again and now he was going to lose him. The broken body was still living, but the rest of Sherlock could be anywhere.

John buried his head into the blankets at the foot of the bed, so the world would not see his tears. Trying to think of anything else he could do. Anything else he could have done. And cursing his own dull, unimaginative brain when he could come up with nothing. Sherlock was right. He was an idiot. There was only one thing left to do. One thing that scored a perfect ten on the pointless scale. John took hold of Sherlock's hand. He didn't care if the whole world came and stared. Not now. Because Sherlock was laying broken and John found himself unable to pick up the pieces.

Mycroft received word of his brother's accident as soon as his plane landed. Within thirty minutes he was at the hospital, being apprised of his brother's condition by a very nervous looking duty doctor who had obviously never dealt with anyone like Mycroft before. Sherlock's condition was serious, but stable. Doctor Watson had managed to stop the major bleeding from his femoral artery whilst Sherlock had been on the fire escape. This had undoubtedly saved his life, and his leg. Mycroft sometimes thought John Watson was a Guardian Angel sent to save his brother from his own stupidity.

He found John exactly where he had expected to find him. Asleep, holding Sherlock's hand. The heart monitor was signalling a steady rhythm as Sherlock's chest rose and fell gently in time to the ventilator. Mycroft bent briefly to kiss his brother's forehead.

"Silly boy." He whispered. He was almost certain Sherlock scowled in his unconsciousness. Mycroft turned to leave. But not before gently draping a blanket over John Watson's shoulders and pressing his lips to John's temple.

"Thank you John. Again."


	63. Falling

He found himself struggling. Standing on the edge of a great precipice. Water roaring all around him. Cascading down and down into the bowels of oblivion. Jagged boulders like broken teeth stuck out of the white froth, threatening to chew up and spit out any one who came near them. And he knew his feet were slipping. The ground was uneven, muddy, slowly disintegrating under foot as he tried to keep his balance.

The black coated man he was wrestling with was faintly familiar. Not his face, or clothes but his eyes. That expression of ill concealed mayhem and hatred. Hatred focused solely on obliterating him and sending him tumbling down into the foamy waters below. He could feel himself moving closer to the edge, knowing that it was almost time. Knowing that for the sake of everyone he had to sacrifice himself.

He looked down once more, calculating the time it would take for him to hit the bottom, how long he would have to think about it before he was truly lost. A few seconds at most. A few seconds to think about who was left behind. A few seconds to think about the people who loved him. Ironic. A few seconds was probably more than enough. Mycroft. Mrs Hudson. John.

He knew that it was all over. Because if there had been any chance that it would end differently John would be there. John was always there. And even though it pained him to admit it, so was Mycroft. If there was any way between his Brother and his, whatever John was, they would have thought of something. It was time. He looked up briefly, peering through the spray, just on the off chance that somehow he might see John running down the cliff to him. But off course there was no one. He gripped the black coated man tightly and stepped off the edge.

He was falling. The black material of the other mans coat dissolving in his hands until he was clutching nothing but wet air. And abruptly he felt a strong hand on his wrist, stopping his fall with a force that caused his whole body to jerk upwards, nearly pulling his arm from its socket. And a voice. A familiar but strange voice.

"Not yet Sherlock. One day. But not today Sherlock." And then he was certain he was laying by the bank of a mountain stream...

"...Sherlock come on. " Someone was shouting. Someone was pounding on his ribs.

"Doctor Watson. It's no good." A strange female voice.

"Sherlock..." This time he felt his ribs break. "Come on stay with me."

"Doctor Watson. I've got a heartbeat." The female voice again.

Sherlock felt someone bury their head in his chest. He opened his eyes, choking as the tube was pulled from his throat.

"John?" His voice was raspy.

"Sherlock." Tired blue eyes swivelled in his direction.

"John...I was falling...you caught me." Sherlock moved his arm to stroke John's sweat slicked hair.

"I will always catch you." He heard John whisper softly.


	64. Other Half

John's constant vigil at Sherlock's bedside had not gone unnoticed. And had caused one Nurse who had come in to adjust Sherlock's drip to comment:

"Your boyfriend's very lucky to have you John." She smiled at him as she checked the fluid levels in the bag.

"He's not my boyfriend." John responded automatically.

"Oh I'm sorry, are you two married?" She adjusted the bed sheets.

"No. No we're not." John knew he was blushing. It was ridiculous. He was holding Sherlock's hand in plain view of the world and still couldn't admit to a nurse he had known at Medical School that Sherlock was his... but what was he to Sherlock really?

Colleague? No. That implied a business arrangement. That implied some kind of contract. It also implied some kind of equality. And John was realistic to know that he was not Sherlock's equal. Sometime that hurt. But it felt a little better to know that there was no one equal to Sherlock.

Boyfriend? No. Boyfriend implied going out on dates. To the cinema. The funfair. Picnics in the countryside and holding hands. Sadly John thought he was probably a little too old to be anybody's boyfriend anymore. Certainly not Sherlock's. Certainly not when "dates" usually involved dead people. And guns. And harpoons.

Partner? Certainly partner in crime. But very little else. Partner just sounded like a grand way of bigging himself up. "Oh Yes I'm the partner of Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective. See me bask in his reflected glory." No definitely not partner.

Sidekick? Robin to Sherlock's Batman. The stupid one who was there for comic relief and always got in to trouble and had to be rescued. Yeah that was getting there.

Husband? No, completely ridiculous. Absolutely not. Come back when hell freezes over.

Best Mate? Only mate? Mates went out for a beer and a laugh. Mates knew everything about each other. Mates looked out for each other. Mates did not lock other mates in a Lab and experiment on them. Mates did not put each other in danger.

And the horrible feeling creeping up on John as he sat there was that he knew exactly what he was to Sherlock. Nothing. Because despite the intimate moments in Baker Street, the few kisses, the times they had slept in each other's arms and John had been desperate to do more but hadn't dared for fear of breaking the delicate threads of their friendship, John knew that Sherlock hadn't thought twice about leaving him behind. There had been no hesitation. No thought, as Sherlock had jumped and left John behind. John had ceased to exist in that moment. In Sherlock's head John Watson had become nothing.

John raised his tired eyes to the nurse: Marianne. That was it. Marianne Wilson, who according to her name badge was now Marianne Simmons.

"We're not... I'm not his...I'm..." he felt Sherlock squeeze his hand. The silver eyes opened and squinted at Marianne.

"He's the other half of me." Sherlock rasped quietly and then closed his eyes smiling.


	65. The Dying of the Detective

John had only gone home for two hours. Just one hundred and twenty tiny minutes. Just to have a shower, a shave, get clean clothes. Get Sherlock fresh pyjamas. That was all. Two hours. He thought it would be fine. Sherlock was stable. Getting better. It was all fine.

As he walked in to the hospital he knew something was not quite right. The way they were looking at him. The quick glances and then the averted eyes. The sympathy. John quickened his pace, trying to force himself not to run.

Sherlock's room was quiet as John pushed the door open. No machines bleeping. No ventilator hissing like a wounded python. Just silence. Something so very wrong as John's eyes focussed properly in the dim light and realised that the bed was empty. Stripped down and cleaned. Sherlock was gone.

John fought the rapidly swelling rage in his throat as he ran to the nurses' station.

"Where is he? Sherlock Holmes? If that bloody idiot has discharged himself I'll..."

"I'm very sorry John, Mr Holmes passed away two hours ago. There was too much damage to his heart. He had a history of drug abuse, which had already damaged the heart valves. Congestive Heart Failure. I'm really sorry."

He wouldn't cry. John Watson would not cry. Over and over he told himself that as he looked into the face of his fellow doctor.

"Where is he?"

"His brother arrived shortly afterwards. The body was taken away." John felt as though he was falling. Plunging into a bottomless pit. And irrationally blaming Mycroft for everything. The iceman certainly lived up to his reputation. And all that time John had believed that Mycroft was actually a decent bloke. John walked down the corridor to the main entrance of the hospital, his pace quickening, and his gait changing almost imperceptibly as he felt himself limping, the pain in his leg stabbing him with every step.

Outside he hailed a cab. All that mattered now was finding Mycroft.

Xxxx


	66. What People Do

John knew there was every chance he was committing treason. He'd already gone in to the Diogenes club, shouted at the top of his lungs that he wanted to "See that Bastard Mycroft Holmes right away." And had then started singing a few choice songs he'd learnt at his Rugby Club. In hindsight perhaps stopping off to down nearly a bottle of Jack Daniels neat was not the best idea. But then neither was hitting a man he was certain did not occupy a minor position in the British Government.

In fact Mycroft was probably the head of the Secret Service, the Prime Minister and the Queen all rolled in to one. And John had just hit him.

There was a small trickle of blood running slowly from the corner of Mycroft's mouth. It made him look like a Civil Service vampire. And he drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at John's slightly swaying figure and unfocussed eyes. Had John not been quite so drunk he would have noticed the briefest of seconds after he had punched him, where Mycroft Holmes the Iceman of Whitehall, seriously looked as though he was going to hit back. But then the sneering composure returned.

"He's dead!" John screamed.

"Yes Doctor Watson."

"He's dead. Why did no one tell me?"

"Well obviously someone has told you otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"He's dead. He just died and I never even got say goodbye."

"That's what people do!" Colour was slowly suffusing Mycroft's face. "People die and you don't get to say goodbye."

John looked in to the cold blue eyes. Suddenly sober. Suddenly realising. Sherlock was quite correct. Mycroft really was a heartless bastard. His little brother was dead and Mycroft was cold as Ice, at his club, sipping Brandy as though nothing had happened.

"Where is he? Where's the body?"

"Being cremated at a government facility."

"You can't just cremate a body. Not like that."

"I think you will find I can do whatsoever i wish Doctor Watson. Now I suggest you go back to Baker Street and sleep off that bottle of Bourbon. And forget about Sherlock."

"Forget about Sherlock? Maybe you've already deleted him. But I can't. I love...loved him. And I never got to tell him. Not really. Not properly."

"Go home Doctor Watson. Get some sleep."

"Sleep? How the hell am I ever going to sleep again?" John's shoulders slumped as he staggered out of Mycroft's office and was escorted into a waiting car.

Mycroft watched the broken figure of John Watson get in to the car. And then watched the car as it drove slowly away. He turned from the window, the mask of indifference gone from his face and replaced with intense worry. He addressed the man now standing behind him.

"I do hope you know what you are doing Sherlock. Friends like John Watson come along once in a lifetime."

"I know Mycroft. I know."


	67. Absence

It had been three months. Three months of John staring listlessly in to space. Going to work. Coming home. Staring in to space again. Sat in Baker Street, almost exactly as it had been the day Sherlock died. John was still functioning, just, but he wasn't living any more. Mrs Hudson came in occasionally, brought John meals that he didn't eat, made him tea he didn't drink. Did the dusting every now and again, because she was still the landlady not the housekeeper. And John just sat. Numb.

He had taken a job in Accident and Emergency. It was the closest thing he could get to the buzz and excitement of being with Sherlock. But if Sherlock had been Heroin, this was Methadone. A substitute that really only scratched the surface of the craving. Only just stopped John's hand from shaking and his leg from crumbling under him with every step he took.

The rent had been paid on the flat. On the second and final occasion he had seen Mycroft, who was as unflinching and cold as ever, he had been informed that Sherlock's Will made a provision to pay the rent for as long as John wished to reside there. It wasn't healthy. Surrounded by Sherlock's things. They really should all be packed away. Out of sight. But John had no graveside to weep at, no body to mourn. Not even a casket of ashes to stick on the mantelpiece next to the skull and hold pointless one sided conversations with. So instead John mourned hugging onto Sherlock's violin, or by wrapping himself in the grey silk dressing gown. Trying to sleep. For three months.

John was asleep on the sofa. Exhaustion had finally pushed the over-ride on his brain, and Doctor John Watson was curled up, Sherlock's dressing gown as a pillow, hugging Frank the Hippo, and sleeping so deeply he never heard the door of the flat open. John never heard the soft breathing and careful footsteps approaching him. Nor did he wake as the tall figure bent over him and pressed their lips to John's cheek. He didn't even stir as a voice whispered gently.

"I'm sorry John. I'm so sorry."

When John woke up the next morning something was different. Something that his blurry mind took a few seconds to process. And then it hit him. Somehow he was covered with an orange Ambulance blanket. And when he looked around the flat, he realised the Skull was gone.


	68. A Lot Not Good Enough

There was no such thing as a typical day for John. It would start with breakfast. An effort to force down lukewarm coffee and hospital toast. And then the day would spiral off into its own unique pattern of blood and broken bones and vomit and crying and death and birth and screaming and silence. And that Wednesday looked as though it would follow the pattern as he walked head down and shoulders hunched through the crowds. And then the world exploded. The ripple of the blast tore away shop fronts and threw cars tumbling like toys into the early morning traffic. People were screaming, running, the panic of the unknown. And John Watson? John Watson raised his head, the tunnel vision of the solider in battle returning to him and the chemical high of adrenalin kicking in.

He was shouting orders at the emergency services, showing his military identity card, moving from body to body, ignoring the soundtrack of sirens and shattering glass all around him.

"Doctor? Over here!" He ran to where the Ambulance technician was stooped over the body of a young man, maybe twenty five? Surrounded by blood and the remains of a text book and laptop. Next to him another young man, the same age, tall, with red hair and a look of utter helplessness on his face, was holding on to the first man's bloody hand.

"Are you a doctor?"

"Yes. Yes I am."

"Can you help him? Please can you help him?"

"Yes. Yes I can." Of course he could. He could help everyone. Now. John looked at the blue lips and staring eyes, as the ambulance team bought over oxygen and equipment.

"I can't get a line in doctor. His throat's closed."

"Give me a scalpel." John took two deep breaths and his vision focussed on the inch if skin just below his patients Adam's Apple. With hands so still they might have been those of a dead man John brought the blade down swiftly and opened up the Trachea. Within seconds the patient was spluttering and gasping as air rushed in to his lungs.

"Get him to St Bart's." John started to walk away.

"Thank you." The Redhead called after John.

"You're welcome. Just don't let go."

John surveyed the destruction. He felt better than he had done in months. Someone had turned London into a battleground and he was enjoying it. That was a bit not good. He shook his head realising as he looked down that his shirt was covered in blood. No matter, he could always get a new shirt. As he turned his attention towards the next patient, he heard something familiar and it took a few milliseconds for his brain to recall what it was. It was the sound of a bullet. A bullet that was coming for him. It took the briefest of moments for him to process the information and for his brain to reply "Oh God Thank You." Before he was knocked flying, feeling the slow explosion of burning as the bullet hit him. It was over. Finally over.

Whatever heaven or hell he had been expecting it had not involved someone sitting on him. John shook his head to clear his swimming vision and found himself looking up into a pair of concerned grey eyes.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John."

"Sherlock?" He reached out to touch the face. It was real.

"I'm sorry John."

"No. Not good enough. Not nearly good enough." And despite the new bullet wound in his shoulder John Watson hit Sherlock Holmes so hard that the Detective was knocked flying and was unconscious before he landed. Only then did John allow the tears he had held back for months to flood out of him, dripping onto his shirt and mixing with the blood.


	69. Empty

John's shoulder hurt a lot. It was just a graze, a flesh wound. Nowhere near the painful destruction of the last bullet wound. It had needed a few stitches and was now covered with a neat white dressing. All nice and tidy. Sherlock's split lip had required three stitches and he was still laying down waiting for the world to stop spinning. He supposed he'd asked for it, but was wondering if john had needed to hit him quite so hard. Especially after Sherlock had pushed him out the way of that bullet.

John couldn't remember when his emotions had been in quite so much turmoil. Couldn't quite remember when he had crossed the line from straightforward what you see is what you get to the multi layered world of conflicting thoughts now rampaging through his mind like the Viking hordes. There was the part of John that desperately wanted to reach out, to touch Sherlock all over and make sure it was him, to trace the familiar lines of his body and reclaim what had been lost. There was the part of John that was praying he would wake up very soon. That this dream was just not fair. There was the part of John that was so mad that he couldn't even think of words bad enough to call Sherlock. So mad that Sherlock had done this to him. Had tortured him like that. Nearly destroyed him.

And then there was the part of John that hurt the most. Because Sherlock didn't trust him. Sherlock didn't realise that John would rather have been shot a hundred times, would rather have endured the worst tortures imaginable. John would rather have died than spent a minute thinking Sherlock was dead and he had been unable to save him. John hurt. Because he realised Sherlock didn't really know him at all.

It was an hour later when Mycroft turned up. An hour of silence occasionally broken by stilted conversation.

"John?"

"Don't."

"I'm..."

"No."

Mycroft looked from one man to the other. Shaking his head slightly. Noting with amusement his brother's split lip. John really did have a killer left hook.

"So you knew about all this?" John had stood and was facing Mycroft, fists clenching and unclenching.

"Yes. And I am truly sorry John. It would have put you in too much danger." Sherlock stood motionless, his face concentrating as though he was trying to work out an impossibly difficult problem.

"I thought... and I never... I just..." And John found himself being hugged tightly, his tears soaking the front of Mycroft's waistcoat.

"Sherlock?" The voice from above John's head was stern. "Sherlock. I think this is your job."


	70. A Different Kind of Alive

They sat in silence at Baker Street. The Doctor and the Detective. Neither knowing what to say. Mycroft had explained it all. How it was imperative that everyone believed Sherlock to be dead. A matter of national Security. How John's life had been at risk from his association with Sherlock. How the villains were now apprehended and would not be bothering any one again. Mycroft would see to it. John had forgiven Mycroft. After all, he had the bigger picture to worry about. Not just his brother's life, not just John's. But everyone's. Somehow though John could not forgive Sherlock.

Sherlock noticed the flat was exactly how he had left it, give or take a decomposing finger or two. His violin was sat in its open case where it had been placed the last time it had been played. His room was untouched, except for the slight wrinkling of the duvet cover where someone had slept, hugging the pillow. On that night he has sneaked in to Baker Street, because he just had to see John he hadn't really taken in the significance of the untouched things. Unusual for him, but John seemed to cause his mind to short circuit.

Even now, wrapped in his stripy dressing gown and sipping a mug of tea, John was causing a distinct dysfunction of Sherlock's neural patterns.

"You missed me John." A statement, not a question.

"Yes."

"You kept all my things."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?"

"You were obviously upset by my death. Why would you keep things that reminded you continually of me?"

"You don't understand do you?" Finally something that John knew in all its complexity that the great Holmes mind was unable to process.

"No. "

"When I was with you, it was the best time I ever had. And I never wanted to forget any of it. This flat is full of silly reminders. Right down to the knife in the mantelpiece and the bullet holes in the wall. When I was with you I was alive, it was like being burned up in the sun, but it felt so good, I knew I was burning but I didn't care. And then you died. And I felt nothing any more, except when i looked around here and remembered. And then it hurt. The pain hurt so much. But at least I could feel something. A different kind of burning, but still burning because of you."

There was silence for twenty minutes, broken only by the traffic noise from outside and the ticking of the clock. The world went on. Time went on. But Sherlock and John had stopped.

"John. I never realised it would hurt you like that. Mycroft told me and I didn't believe him. He told me exactly what it would do to you and I did it anyway. But I am so sorry John. I really am." Sherlock knelt on the floor in front of John, taking John's hands in his and bringing them to his lips to kiss. "Forgive me John."

Finally John raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's, there was still sadness there, but also the tiniest flame of hope.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?"

"You brother really is much smarter than you isn't he?"

Sherlock smiled. John smiled back at him.

"I'll make tea shall I?"

"There's no milk." Obviously things were returning to normal.


	71. Not My Boyfriend

It took three weeks for John's shoulder to heal and for them to remove the stitches. It left a neat scar about three inches long just at the top of his arm. A course of high strength antibiotics just in case and he was good to go. Or at least that's what the cheerful nurse in the outpatient's clinic told him. Smiling indulgently at Sherlock who had been sitting in silence in the waiting area as she walked back through with John. She thought it was cute the way John had tried to be brave, not making a sound as she had pulled the sutures out. And the look of relief on Sherlock's face when John had walked back through was just adorable. It was only there for a moment. Just a few seconds.

"Well your boyfriend looks relieved any way."

Sherlock looked up, watching John's face for a reaction.

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Oh Sorry."

"No its fine. Thank you." John made his way out of the hospital, not even pausing to see if Sherlock would follow him. John was still numb. And Sherlock knew it.

Three weeks had passed sitting in silence, John occasionally looking at Sherlock and then retreating to his room. Sleeping for hours curled up hugging his Hippo like a frightened child. Sherlock knew it was bad- Frank very much classed as emergency protocol one. It was so bad that Sherlock had asked Mycroft for advice. And with a wisdom born from a broken heart Mycroft had told Sherlock quite simply that there was nothing that could be done.

"_Sherlock. You hurt John very badly. We all did. With your actions, however necessary, you told him that you do not trust him."_

"_Of course I trust him. I did it to keep him alive. Surely he can see that. Better for him to be alive without me, than joining me in a grave."_

"_Logically yes. Until you take into account that John probably doesn't have the same attitude to death that other people have. He has seen death, as a surgeon he has beaten death; he's even faced his own death. This is the man who missed the battlefield Sherlock. The man who followed you without question because he wanted to feel alive. That's what you gave him. And then it was all taken away. And you were the one that took it."_

"_So what do I do?"_

"_There's nothing you can do."_

"_Mycroft, fix it. Please." It was endearing, how for all the animosity Sherlock ultimately still believed his big brother could sort out anything._

"_No. You have to fix it."_

"_How?"_

"_You have to work that out for yourself."_


	72. NoMan's Land

John was sleeping. Curled up on his bed. Holding on to the pillow. The gentleness of his breathing was at odds with the expression on his face. An expression that told anyone looking on that John was dreaming. And it wasn't a happy one.

John found himself wading through fields of mud and casualties. As though he had dropped through time into World War One. As he ran on through the mud, his feet slipping on blood and bodies, dodging razor wire, he could hear the cries for help. The voices shouting for stretcher bearers and medics. But it was as though he was always too far away from the voices. Wherever he ran the wounded were always somewhere else.

He turned over body after body, searching for signs of life. Each corpse cold with dead staring eyes. Each one reminding him he was too late. There was nothing he could do. And each and every corpse had Sherlock's face.

Sherlock sat in the chair at the foot of John's bed watching him sleep. Knowing that somewhere inside John's head he was running through a battlefield. And he was running through it alone. Without Sherlock. Sherlock had no idea what kind a war zone John was in. Sherlock didn't understand dreams. But he understood the concept of alone. He drew his knees up to his chin and waited, watching.

John turned in his sleep. Moving awkwardly, his shoulder still hurt. In his dream John Watson was stood on the edge of a pit. A mass grave, filled with bodies. Twisted limbs and tortured souls. The edge was crumbling. The mud dissolving soaked through with blood. And John stepped forwards, off the edge and into the oblivion beyond.

He sat up, his breathing now erratic as his mind tried to impose order on the dream world and reality. Sherlock looked up, wondering if John would wake up properly, or if he would simply go back to sleep. Dismissing reality. Dismissing Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?" There was a pause. A long silent pause. There had been a lot of long silent pauses recently.

"You won't ever leave me again, will you? Won't leave me alone?"

"No John. I won't." Sherlock unfolded himself from his chair and walked over to the bed. He sat on the edge, gently taking John in his arms and holding him. This time he was determined never to let go.


	73. The Rescue of Sherrinford Holmes

**Request for Nattie Finn:**

It was a little after two in the morning when John got rudely awakened by Sherlock. Sherlock in what appeared to be a state of high anxiety.

"John please wake up. I need you. It's an emergency."

John sat up, immediately alert, noticing the nasty looking cut above Sherlock's eye and the scrapes on his knuckles. You didn't need to be a genius detective to know he'd been in a fight.

"What happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. It's not me. It's Sherrinford."

"Sherrinford?" As far as John was aware, Sherlock had just been for a walk. One of his_ I can't sleep and sleeping's boring anyway walks._

"Outside a charity shop. He'd been dumped. They were kicking him about like a football. He's... he's all..." Sherlock shook his head.

"Okay. Where is he?"

"Downstairs on the table. Please can you have a look at him?"

"The table?"John was wondering exactly how bad this was going to be as he climbed out of bed and hurried down the stairs.

To say the sight that greeted him was not quite what he had expected was an understatement. And a flush of anger, very briefly bubbled up inside him.

"That's Sherrinford?"

"Yes. Can you do anything?" Sherlock's face was pale and concerned, a small trickle of blood drying on his cheek. John's anger at being woken disappeared instantly.

"Get me my Suture kit." And John set to work.

An hour later and Sherrinford was looking a lot better. John had done a very neat job. The tiny stitches he had used to repair the damage were hardly visible. He was still a little lopsided, but John hoped that wouldn't be permanent. Sherlock was busy drying him with a hairdryer, having vetoed John's idea of putting him in the tumble dryer. Sherrinford's stuffing was still a little soggy but John was confident of his patient making a good recovery. Generally stuffed Tigers were quite hardy creatures.

"Sherlock. Did you have a fight with three drunks over a stuffed tiger?"

"Four drunks actually. But well done for spotting there were more than two. They were stamping on him. I may have broken someone's nose." He paused, stroking the Tiger's soft fur. "Is that not good John? You'd do the same for Frank."

"Yes. Yes I would. Come here. I need to take a look at that cut."

Sherlock moved to the sofa, carefully placing the now dry Tiger on a cushion. The Tiger, in all honesty, still looked slightly confused about his reversal of fortune. One minute you were unwanted and unloved, being kicked around London, the next minute you had been saved by Sherlock Holmes. John understood entirely and patted the small stripy guy on the head before turning his attention to Sherlock.

"Thank you John."

"You're welcome. Now hold still." And John began to clean the cut above Sherlock's eye.


	74. Someone to Watch Over You

John woke up with the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. He knew that Sherlock sometimes watched him sleeping. He sometimes wished Sherlock would stop watching him and get some sleep himself. No matter what he said, Sherlock was a lot easier to handle when he'd had sleep.

But now, as John sat up, two sets of eyes and a set of sockets were trained on him from the dresser at the end of the bed. Frank the Hippo had every right to be there of course. It was his dresser. And the skull sometimes visited, although John did try to make sure it was removed before he went to sleep. Silly really. As a doctor he should have known it was just a lump of bone. Nothing to be scared of. Only it was ever so slightly disconcerting. Especially when Sherlock would never tell him exactly where he got the skull. Sherrinford the Tiger was an entirely different matter.

Sherlock Holmes was a man extreme opinions. Breathing was boring, sleeping was for lesser mortals, it was perfectly acceptable to play your violin at three in the morning if you were awake. It was fine to keep body parts in the salad drawer of the fridge. Everything made sense in his world. And he was not a man who let sentiment cloud his actions. The criminal was caught because Sherlock was right. Not because Sherlock thought the criminal had done something wrong. Some might say Sherlock didn't care. Didn't care about people. Didn't care about anything. Not even himself.

And they'd be wrong.

He did care. Just in a very Sherlock sort of way. John understood that. And somehow that little tiger, with his scars that would never heal, served as a reminder to John of just how much Sherlock cared sometimes. But quite why Sherrinford should be sitting in John's room was a mystery.

John got out of bed and paced over to the dresser. His phone was next to the skull, showing a received text message.

SMS: Gone to Scotland Yard. LeStrade has a case. SH

Fairly straightforward. That's why Sherlock wasn't playing his violin or destroying the microwave at this moment. John looked around the room. Sherlock's dressing gown abandoned on the chair. He had been watching John sleep. The pillow was damp. John had been sweating? The rest of the bed was dry. Not sweating. Crying. Crying in his sleep whilst Sherlock watched. The sheet was rumpled and pulled out from the mattress. Crying and struggling. Nightmare. A bad nightmare John could not recall.

Sherlock had to go. But he hadn't left John alone with his Nightmare. He had left John a guard of Hippo, Skull and Tiger. No doubt there was some absolute logic at work behind it. Some reasoning that Sherlock would be able to pull out of his magic deerstalker and impress the world with. But once John had eliminated the impossible, the real reason, improbable as it was that remained was quite simple. Sherlock cared.


	75. Fear

It was the end of another case. A step-father trying to drive his step daughter insane through her fear of arachnophobia. The evil old bastard had been letting Tarantulas loose in the poor girl's room at night through a hole he had drilled in the skirting board behind the radiator. The previous year the girls elder sister had been committed to a secure facility for the mentally disturbed. Apparently she kept seeing rats everywhere. All for the girls inheritance. John wanted to hang him out of a window. Or better still find out what he was afraid of and stick him in a room full of it.

The taxi ride back to Baker Street was quiet. Sherlock was on the post case come down. He'd probably be asleep within the hour. Maybe in his bed, but more likely on the sofa, or the floor of the kitchen. John looked thoughtfully at the toes of his suede shoes. Scuffed. Needed cleaning. He sighed.

"What are you most afraid of John?"

"What?"

"What scares you?"

"Whatever I say you'll just tell me that fear is an irrational by- product of a feeble mind or something."

"No I won't."

"All right then. Clowns. I don't like Clowns."

"No one likes Clowns John; it's the way their smiles are painted on so you can't tell what they are really thinking. But are you truly scared of them? If I were to lock you in a room with a Clown would you go mad?"

"No. But I don't reckon much on the Clown's chances. Don't, by the way. Even as an experiment."

"So come on. What are you afraid of? What would tip you over the edge? Death? Rats? Giant Glow in the Dark Rabbits?"

"Honestly? Nothing."

"Nothing? John Watson who still sleeps with his Hippo is afraid of nothing?"

"Don't mock the Hippo! Sherlock, I have seen the sum of all my fears, and it didn't send me mad. Didn't send me screaming and kicking in to an asylum. All it did was leave me cold and empty. It left me as nothing. That's what scares me. Being left with nothing."

There was silence. For a moment. As the rain started to blur on the windows of the cab.

"Mycroft is scared of enclosed spaces. He was locked in a trunk at prep school by some older boys once. That's probably why he likes to conduct so much of his business in large industrial buildings."

"What are you afraid of Sherlock? Or does your Mind Palace not have a room marked scared shitless?"

Whatever answer John had been expecting and he had a mental list which included Sherlock losing his mind, losing his memory, any number of degenerative brain conditions, the answer Sherlock gave stunned John into silence.

"Losing you John. That would truly scare me into insanity. And I would probably welcome the insanity with open arms."


	76. A Gift For Mycroft

"_Sherlock he's your brother."_

"_I don't care. It's a completely pointless exercise."_

"_It's his birthday!"_

"_So?"_

"_So when it was your birthday he bought you that really expensive bomb proof computer, so that you could throw it across the room and not break it."_

"_It was a prototype. He probably stole it from the MOD."_

"_It's still the thought that counts." _

"_There's nothing Mycroft wants that I could possibly give him." _

"_There must be something? A new umbrella? A silk tie? Cufflinks?"_

"_I could buy him his own weight in cake. Which has the virtue of keeping him out of my way for two hours and securing the future of the British Baking industry for another century."_

"_Sherlock!"_

"_All right then. You pick him something. I'll pay for it." _

Which is how John came to be in a very upmarket gentlemen's outfitters in Saville Row looking at a display of silk ties and feeling like a tramp. He really wished he'd worn his best suit. But then he'd just finished up a shift at the hospital. And he was becoming increasingly aware that there was something unpleasant on his trousers.

"Can I help you sir?" The assistant was an inch shorter than John but somehow managed to look down his nose at him.

"I'm looking for a birthday gift. For a friend."

"Really? And how much was Sir thinking of spending?" Implying that whatever John had would not be enough.

"Money's not really an object." John had Sherlock's credit card.

"And what does Sir's friend like Sir?" Any moment someone was going to slip over on the obsequiousness oozing onto the floor.

John thought. What did Mycroft like? Umbrellas. Nice Suits. Starting Wars. Cake. John wasn't convinced about the last one. The Sales assistant looked on impassively as John suddenly realised he hadn't got the faintest idea what Mycroft actually enjoyed doing. Surely he couldn't just run the country all the time? The man had to have some hobby, some distraction. Everyone did. Otherwise you'd go mad.

"Sorry I think I'll leave it for now." And John hurried out of the shop. For some reason it really bothered him that he knew so very little about Mycroft. Sherlock looked smug when John returned to Baker Street.

"Shopping trip not a success John?"

"Shut up." Silence. John made tea. "Sherlock. What does Mycroft actually do when he's not running the country?"

"Aside from interfering in my life you mean? I haven't the faintest idea."

"He must do something. Does he play the violin?"

"Mycroft? Good God no! He played piano until he was sixteen. And I think he used to collect fossils. Now, I think he mainly sits in the Diogenes club, eats cake and reads the papers."

"Is that not a bit sad?"

"Yes John. It is." Sherlock's face was neutral but his eyes were clouded over. "You think we should do something about it? You have your righteously indignant face on."

"I think we should do something about it."

"And what do you suggest we do?"

"How about getting him a Birthday Cake?" There was a long pause.

"He doesn't really spend all his time eating cake you know. I was just being mean."

"I did work that out for myself Sherlock!" John sighed, switched on Sherlock's military grade laptop and began looking for a local Baker that did birthday cakes. And it was only after ten minutes of surfing through some truly delicious looking confections that John realised what Sherlock had said.

"_We should do something about it."_


	77. Happy Birthday Mycroft

So what do you buy the Minor Government Official with everything? John Watson was struggling with this question as he ordered a birthday cake in Moftiss of Piccadilly, Confectioners and Master Bakers. He had decided upon Chocolate. Everyone liked Chocolate cake. And had picked out what he thought were appropriate decorations from the extensive selection. He ignored the slightly raised eyebrow of the man behind the counter. You got very used to raised eyebrows when you were friends with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had been despatched to buy a present. John was not entirely sure this was a good idea. There were any number of things that Sherlock could come back with. All of them filled John with dread. It was highly unlikely that Sherlock would get his brother a normal gift. Perhaps John should have just got Mycroft a Fortnum and Mason's gift certificate? But after his initial reluctance, Sherlock did seem very keen on getting something himself.

Sherlock for his part knew exactly what to get his brother. It was one of those moments when he visited the storeroom of his mind palace. The room where the things he had never got around to deleting were kept. Those strange memories from his childhood. The handful of happy recollections of sliding down stairs on tea trays, of sneaking pie from the pantry in the kitchen, of unwrapping Christmas presents. Sentiment. There wasn't a lot of room for it in Sherlock's mind. The store room was very small. But it was surprising it was there at all. And sat on top of a pile of childhood recollections grown dusty with years of forgetting there was an image. Mycroft sat at the piano in the drawing room. The Baby Grand. But not playing one of the boring pieces from the music library. Playing something quite different. And then Sherlock remembered something else.

Sherlock met up with John at Baker Street, taking note of the red and white striped cake box on the table. He placed the flat package he was carrying next to it and went to change his shirt.

"Will Mycroft be at home?" John asked, making a fourth attempt to get his tie right.

"Its a Saturday. Where else would he be?"

"Work? The Diogenes Club?"

"No. He'll be at home."

They pulled up outside Mycroft's house. John wondered why a single man who seemed to spend most of his time at work or his club wanted such a large house. But staring up and feeling thoroughly intimidated by the four storeys, John realised it was a status thing. Of course.

"Sherlock. Be nice." John shot as his last warning before he rang the doorbell. When Mycroft answered, still wearing a three piece suit, shirt and tie, there was a moment of silent awkwardness.

"Good evening Doctor. Sherlock. And to what do i owe this pleasure?"

"Erm. Happy Birthday?" John felt a little ridiculous, holding on to the eccentric cake box. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and then smiled.

"Thank-you. Do come in."

Sherlock remained silent. John hadn't expected him to burst into a raucous chorus of Happy Birthday but he'd expected him to say something.

"Mycroft." Sherlock handed his brother the parcel.

"Sherlock." Mycroft looked down at it.

"We got you a cake as well?" John opened the box to reveal the Union Flag cake which also had small Umbrellas iced onto it. Mycroft smiled.

"It's not Chocolate is it?"

"Yes."

"Oh good. I always loved Chocolate Cake."

John kicked Sherlock in the ankle just in case. A pre-emptive strike. Mycroft opened Sherlock's gift. For a moment John thought he was going to kill Sherlock. With his bare hands. Really. Properly kill him this time. And then Mycroft smiled.

"Thank you. I'm surprised you remembered that." Mycroft looked very damp around the eyes. "Shall we have some cake? I'll put the kettle on."

John looked at Sherlock framing a question with his eyebrows.

"It was the last thing I ever heard him play on the Piano. A few weeks before Nicholas died."

"Really? "

"Yes. It was Nick's favourite song. "And suddenly John understood why Sherlock had decided to buy his brother the sheet music for "_I don't like Mondays."_

Somewhere deep in a dusty room of Sherlock's mind palace two teenage boys were still having hysterics as they tried to work out the chords, safe in the knowledge they were undeletable.


	78. Kissing Sherlock Holmes

Despite his very best efforts, John had been unable to prevent Sherlock from falling asleep. He supposed really he shouldn't complain as he had been telling him to get some sleep for four days. Only this was not quite what he'd meant.

Molly, bless her, had been very good about it. Then again Molly was always very good about everything where Sherlock was concerned. John made a mental note to send her flowers. Or cupcakes. Or maybe both. But both John and Molly had come to the conclusion that despite the fact that it was Sherlock, he really couldn't sleep there.

"It's not that I mind." Molly explained "It's just that we are quite busy and it's not very hygienic."

John peered at Sherlock's sleeping form and nodded.

"Yes. I'm really sorry. We shouldn't have come down here. But you know what he's like?"

"Of course." Molly failed to keep the wistful out of her voice. She really had no idea what Sherlock was like other than the rather romantic image of him built up in her head.

"He won't wake up now. Perhaps I can give Greg a ring and he'll come down and help me get him into a taxi?"

"Greg?"

"DI LeStrade? Why does no one know what his name is?"

"I thought it was George. Sorry." Molly regarded Sleeping Sherlock for a moment. She gave him a gentle prod. He didn't respond. "Gosh! Not kidding are you?" She poked him more forcefully.

"I'm not entirely convinced that it isn't some form of narcolepsy. I think it's his body's way of compensating for not dreaming. Rather than dream sleep, he just shuts down completely."

"He doesn't dream?" Molly, regardless of her slightly ditzy exterior, was a Doctor. A Pathologist. In her own right an accomplished woman. And perfectly capable of adding two and two together. Or in this case John and Sherlock. Because there were two ways John could know that fact. Option one: he had asked Sherlock. Which suggested an intimate friendship. Option two: he had watched him sleeping. Which suggested an even more intimate friendship.

"No. I've never seen him even go into REM-Sleep." John realised what he had said. He blushed a delightful shade of red and became very interested in the aorta of the corpse currently being autopsied. Molly smiled. A little sadly. But it made her feel better somehow. That's what John did. Doctor Watson made people feel better. Sherlock was never going to go out with her. He had John Watson. Whether that massive brain of his knew it or not.

Molly looked over the top of the corpse to where Sherlock was passed out on the second autopsy table, using a head block as a pillow. He didn't look particularly comfortable. John didn't look particularly comfortable. Sometimes boys really were infuriatingly stupid.

"John how do you usually try and wake him up?"

"Shouting at him. Shaking him. Playing the Kaiser Chiefs really loudly?"

"Have you ever tried kissing him?"

"What?"

"That's the traditional way the Prince wakes up Sleeping Beauty." Molly smiled at John. "I'm just going to file these samples." And John was left alone. With his beautiful sleeping detective.

Really what was the worst that could happen?


	79. The Facts of Life

Sherlock was slightly taken aback when he woke up from his three day post case sleep coma to find himself tucked up in bed in Baker Street. He was even more disturbed by the noises coming from the living room. It sounded as though there was some kind of battle re-enactment going on. He slipped on his dressing gown and stepped out.

To find John and Mycroft lying on the floor was one thing. To find them playing with an assortment of toy cars and soldiers was another thing. Even to find that Sherrinford the Tiger appeared to have an active part in this rather perverse game they were playing was fine. But to discover that there was a small, blond haired child giggling wheezily in the middle of it all was just too much.

"Oh no! The giant tiger is about to flatten London!" John helped Sherrinford to stomp menacingly through the Lego houses and baked bean tins and jar of Gherkins currently representing the Capitol.

"I shall order the special services in. With their anti-giant tiger nets." Mycroft moved a handful of green soldiers forward and flapped a tea towel at a growling Sherrinford.

"Ah yes, but I have genetically modified my giant tiger to have anti- anti-giant tiger net capabilities." John was clearly making things up now.

"Curses, Professor Watson. You leave me no choice but to activate my secret weapon." Mycroft spoke into his hand, pretending he had a walkie-talkie. "Agent N. Release the F-Bomb."

The small blond boy, who was perhaps five or six years old picked up Frank the Hippo and dropped him unceremoniously on top of Sherrinford. Even the bloody tiger looked as though he was enjoying this ridiculous game.

"Damn you Iceman. You have foiled me again. But I will be back." And then John looked up, and noticed Sherlock standing there looking all confused. The small boy followed his gaze and saw the tall, thin man with his piercing silver eyes and wild hair. The boy's bottom lip trembled slightly and he shuffled a little closer to Mycroft.

"Sherlock." As Mycroft stood, wincing slightly when he realised one of his feet was asleep, the boy slinked closer until he was almost hugging Mycroft's Leg.

"Mycroft. Why is there a child in my flat? Have you stolen him?"

"I'm looking after Nicky whilst his mother is at the dentists." The boy tugged at Mycroft's trousers and was hoisted up so he could see. He regarded Sherlock with huge green eyes and smiled shyly before nuzzling against Mycroft's chest.

"Is he yours?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Doctor Watson I would be grateful if at some point you could have The Talk with my brother. He might listen to you. No Sherlock, this is Anthea's son. Nicky." Mycroft smiled reassuringly. Sherlock scowled. Nicky whispered something in Mycroft's ear and Sherlock watched as his brother gently set the boy down and then reached into his pocket, producing an Inhaler. Mycroft had a dangerous look in his eyes.

"I have asthma." The boy said in a matter of fact way as he took his medicine. "And a mar-mar?"

"A Heart Murmur." Mycroft prompted.

"Yes. If I get too 'cited." Then Nicky turned his attention back to the pile of toy cars on the floor, which John was still playing with.

"You look after your staff's children? Really Mycroft, or is it just an excuse to go to McDonalds for a Happy Meal?"

"You were such a lovely baby Sherlock. I can't think what happened."

"I grew up."

"That is very much a matter of opinion."

"I got older then."

"Yes. Yes you did." Mycroft was no longer paying his brother any attention, but rather looking over to the two blond haired figures racing cars along the rug. As if sensing he was being observed, Nicky looked up. "Are you ready to go Nicky?" And the small boy bounced over to Mycroft and took his hand.

"Can we go and see the dinosaurs Mikey?" He pulled on his coat, a blue duffel jacket with hand shaped pockets, and what looked very much like Mycroft's Old Harrovian scarf.

"Yes of course. Goodbye Sherlock. John, thank you."

"Thank you Professor Watson." Nicky smiled at John. Then he looked up a Sherlock. The green eyes analysing the detective in what seemed like minute detail. It was an unpleasant feeling. "Bye Sherlock."

John was busy putting the cars and soldiers back into the cardboard box marked "John's Toys" in what was presumably Mrs Watson's writing. Sherlock sat down moodily on the sofa.

"Sherlock. I know you're obviously not a kid-person, but he didn't do any harm. You might have been a bit friendlier." Silence. Moody silence. For half an hour until Sherlock finally spoke.

"Mycroft never took me to see the Dinosaurs."


	80. Natural History

"Well that's wrong." Sherlock pointed at a display case. "That type of Trilobite didn't appear in the fossil record for another 100000 years."

"I am I being punished for something?" John was speaking to the world in general. "Because whatever it is. I'm really sorry." How he had let himself be talked in to this he did not know. Well actually he knew exactly how. It was because he was an idiot.

xxxx

John thought they were actually getting somewhere. When Sherlock admitted he was upset. Almost admitted he was jealous. Jealous of a six year old, who was getting to do all the things with Mycroft that Sherlock never did. Why had Mycroft never taken him to the museum, or for Ice Cream, or for a Happy meal?

"It might be because you're thirty six and you keep telling him you hate him?"

"He never took me when I was younger."

"Sherlock, when you were six Mycroft was 13? By the time he was old enough to take you to all these places you were too old to want to go."

"And the way he lets that child crawl all over him. If I so much as touched his jacket he'd throw a fit."

"That's because the last time you touched his jacket it was to steal his Downing Street Security Clearance."

"Whose side are you on John?" Sherlock had shouted it, eyes blazing, veins standing out in his neck.

"I'm not on any one's side. This isn't about sides. It's about your inability to forgive your brother for things that he didn't do. This is nothing to do with me." But John had still offered to go and see the dinosaurs with Sherlock.

Xxxx

"This is boring."

"Yes Sherlock."

"Do people really enjoy this?"

"Look around you and deduce genius." John indicated the packed museum.

"Those two are having an affair and they came here because it's the one place his wife will never visit. Thirty school children over there, not interested but it's a day off school, he's trying to impress his girlfriend, make her think he's cultured. Won't work. Not with those shoes. Umbrellas, damp shoulders, it's raining. The Museum's free. And warm and dry..."

"What about those two over there?" John pointed to a tall man wearing jeans and a long black coat holding a small boy above his head for a better view of a Tyrannosaurus Rex's teeth. Sherlock glanced over, the bored expression still spread over his face like Marmite, you either loved it or hated it. John didn't notice the tiny flicker of something else that passed across Sherlock's eyes.

"Well, Obviously what you want as a child is not necessarily what you want as an adult." His expression switched back to bored.

"Yes. Obvious. Shall we go?"

"Yes. This is boring." Sherlock strode towards the nearest exit, his coat billowing behind him. But John couldn't help but notice the rather wistful look Sherlock shot back at the boy and his dad who were still having fun with the Dinosaur displays. Perhaps what Sherlock wanted as a child was exactly what he still wanted. Someone to hold him up so he could get a better look at things.

John hadn't noticed. Perhaps it was because of the clothes, or perhaps because he was more concerned with Sherlock. The tall man crouched down so he was level with his tiny charge.

"So what would you like to do now?"

"Can we go for a Happy Meal?" The boy smiled.

"Yes. Just don't tell your mother. I'm supposed to be on a diet." And Mycroft Holmes winked as he took Nicky's hand.


	81. I Hate You

The first time Sherlock told Mycroft that he hated him, and actually meant it, was when he was nine. There had been plenty of times before then. But it was just something you said to your older brother. It was one of the only things available in the little brother arsenal. You never really meant it.

The reason he said it was because he didn't understand. And because Mycroft wouldn't explain. In fact Mycroft wouldn't do anything anymore. He just sat in his room. Staring out of the window. Or sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chin, red eyed. Sherlock knew why. It was because Nick was dead.

Sherlock understood dead.

Dead meant that the body was cold. It meant that the green eyes wouldn't sparkle anymore, just stare into nothing. It meant that the mouth wouldn't smile anymore, or say funny thing to make you laugh. It meant that eventually the body would rot. And there would be nothing left but a memory.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock pushed the door open. His brother was staring out of the window, his chin resting on his fists.

"Sherlock, get out."

"Mycroft can we go to the museum? Because Nick said, at Christmas that..." But he never finished the sentence.

Mycroft had stood up from the desk, sending the chair flying as he did so. Mycroft was sixteen and very nearly his full adult height. Sherlock was nine. His brother towered over him, and for a moment Sherlock was afraid. Then he saw Mycroft's eyes. The blue eyes that had always seemed to glitter in the light, sparking with some inner fire. Only now they were frozen, like ice. They were dead.

"Get out." And Mycroft picked Sherlock up by one arm and threw him bodily into the corridor before slamming the door.

"I hate you!" Sherlock screamed at the closed door and kicked it so hard the wood splintered. The door was wrenched open again.

"Good!"

"I wished you were dead too!" Somewhere deep inside he knew he really should not have said that.

"I don't care what you wish. Everything dies Sherlock. Everything ends. There's no point in caring" And it was Mycroft's turn to slam the door. This time so hard one of the hinges was ripped from the wall.

Sherlock ran. Mycroft was dead. The big brother who had promised to take him to see the Dinosaurs and the Egyptian Mummies was gone. Replaced by a cold, heartless monster. Sherlock hated him.

Xxx

"I told him I wished he was dead as well." Sherlock looked out of the window of Baker Street and sipped his tea.

"You were nine." John sat on the sofa. He had the feeling he really wasn't helping.

"Yes. I was. But I still said it. And I still meant it."

"No you didn't Sherlock. You just wanted your big brother to take you to the Museum."

"How would you know?"

"Because I may not have been a genius at any point in my life, but once upon a time, I was a nine year old. You didn't mean it. Mycroft knows that. He knew it then and he knows it now."

"So why is he torturing me by bringing that child here and taking it to all the places he should have taken me."

"Perhaps he's trying to show you that he's not a heartless bastard. Perhaps he's trying to ask for a second chance? But what would I know?"

"So what do I do?"

"Send him an abusive text message. I thought that was the approved Holmes method of expressing emotion!"

Sherlock reached for his phone.

Xxx

Mycroft was just slurping down the last of his chocolate milkshake when his phone beeped.

**SMS: I don't really hate you. S**

**SMS: I know. M**

**SMS: I don't wish you were dead. S**

**SMS: I know. M**

**SMS: I'm sorry. S**

**SMS: Meet me at the Natural History Museum in 2 hours? M**


	82. Love It or Hate It?

John's lazy morning was interrupted, rather predictably by the Holmes boys. John had just made a plateful of toast and a pot of the really nice tea Harry had bought him back from Sri Lanka. He was looking forward to a peaceful morning watching Doctor Who defeating an evil genius (it was always an evil genius) who wanted to populate the world with giant plants.

He settled himself on the sofa and was just about to take a bite out of a slice of toast covered in so much butter it was dripping, when the door burst open. Sherlock was mid argument it seemed. Although who he was arguing with was a slight mystery. John looked at his face. Mycroft. Only Mycroft could manage to get Sherlock to turn that blotchy shade of pink. Ten seconds later Mycroft came pounding up the stairs, fuming, taking them two at a time, he had quite the turn of speed when he wanted, it seemed.

"Stop over reacting. It's boring."

"Over reacting? It was 10 Downing Street!"

"You should be grateful that I've highlighted your little security problem. Those police officers are far too easily distracted."

"I should have you locked up! I should hang your skinny arse out of the window!" Mycroft took a step towards Sherlock, his face nearly the same colour as his hair.

"Erm, Sherlock? Mycroft? What's going on?"

"Not now John."

"Good morning Doctor Watson. My brother has surpassed himself by breaking in to the Prime Minister's office."

"I didn't break in. I had a security pass."

"My Security Pass!" Another step towards his brother. Mycroft was really going to kill him this time.

"Okay boys. Would anyone like a cup of tea? Or some toast?"

"Brilliant John, distract him with food."

"Tea? Lovely. Thank you." But Mycroft's hands had just curled in to fists. John couldn't help but think how rather spectacular Mycroft was going to be when he finally lost his temper.

"Well, help yourself to toast, I'll put the kettle on." John shook his head sadly at his lost morning.

Sherlock smirked at his brother and picked up a thick slice of toast from John's plate and bit into it.

"Not having anything to eat Mycroft?" He brandished the plate at his brother. Mycroft glared and took a slice, biting down on it with menace. A few seconds passed before the expression on Sherlock's face change from Sarcastic, to thoughtful, to complete horror. He spat the toast out.

"Oh my God. Mycroft, spit it out, it's poisoned." Sherlock choked as he grabbed the toast from his brother's hand. "John did you eat any of this? God. Call LeStrade. Mycroft are you all right?" There was genuine concern in his voice now, all of the pretence of animosity gone. Mycroft looked puzzled.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Can you not taste that? The toast? It's poisoned."

"Sherlock, it's not poison." Mycroft spoke very gently. "It's Marmite." Over by the kettle John was choking with laughter.

"Marmite?" Sherlock was still gagging.

"It's a kind of spread for toast and sandwiches. I'm rather fond of it myself."

"It's disgusting." Sherlock gulped down John's mug of, by now, lukewarm tea in an attempt to get the taste out of his mouth. John, in between gasping for breath and trying to clutch at the counter to stop himself collapsing, was pondering on the inevitability that one of them would love it and the other would hate it!

"The Downing Street thing Sherlock. Don't do it again." Just as he left Mycroft turned to John. "Mummy did give me the option of a Labrador Puppy." He looked back at his brother who was now drinking mouthwash. "I can't imagine what I was thinking when I said I wanted a little brother instead."

But John knew Mycroft really didn't mean it.


	83. Valentine

_**For Virus-of-Blossoms (ask away.)**_

John had returned to Baker Street to find the flat in darkness, and the heating switched off. Obviously for a few hours, if the chilly air was anything to go by. He adjusted the thermostat and shivered in to his coat. Tea. Definitely it called for a nice hot mug of tea. And maybe a Jaffa Cake.

There was a post it note on the kettle. Without reading it John peered inside. Usually post it notes on the kettle meant body parts within. Or hedgehogs. Or interesting fungi. Or combinations thereof. But the kettle was devoid of anything but tap water. John read the note.

**Come to Angelo's. Urgent. SH.**

Strange. Usually when Sherlock said urgent he said it with a barrage of increasingly short tempered text messages. John double checked his phone. Definitely switched on. Definitely no missed calls, no waiting messages. Strange.

Still, John thought, at least Angelo will have the heating on. It was going to take a while for the Baker Street radiators to warm up.

Angelo's seemed very quiet when John got there. Eerily so. Just a couple of waiters and Sherlock sat at a table in the middle of the otherwise empty restaurant.

"Good evening Doctor Watson!" Angelo took his coat. The restaurant was, as predicted, lovely and warm. John sat down opposite Sherlock. He noticed the candle on the table. Angelo always insisted there should be a candle. In fact tonight, there were candles everywhere.

"Sherlock."

"John." A pause. Silence.

"So, what are we doing here?" John looked around, in case he was missing something obvious. Sherlock looked slightly upset. He frowned, his brow knitting together.

"I...er...thank you." Sherlock smiled at Giovanni, Angelo's nephew, who had just appeared with a very good bottle of Champagne.

"Champagne? Are we celebrating something? Don't tell me, Mycroft's finally had Anderson sent to Zimbabwe?"

"Erm...no John." Sherlock was looking increasingly uncomfortable.

"So what then?"

"Today."

"Today? It's a Tuesday? Happy Tuesday!" John took a sip of champagne. And then it hit him. Tuesday the 14th of February. "Oh."

"Yes. I thought as this was where we had our first date it might be appropriate?"

"Sherlock that wasn't a date. It was a stake out."

"We had a candle on the table and everything."

"And you told me you were married to your work. You thought I was trying to chat you up."

"Weren't you?"

"No. I was trying to make polite conversation."

"Oh." Another pause. Sherlock fidgeted in his seat. John nibbled on a breadstick.

"This might be a date though." John watched as Sherlock's face brightened.

"Really?"

"Yes. February the 14th. Candles on the table. Champagne. You booked the whole restaurant?"

"Yes."

"You turned the heating off so I'd definitely want to leave the flat?"

"Yes."

"You stole a bottle of ridiculously expensive Champagne from Mycroft?"

"Maybe."

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"Kiss me Sherlock. Then it's a date." John grabbed Sherlock by his lapels and pulled him across the table, scattering the breadsticks. There was stunned silence for five minutes before Sherlock was able to compose himself enough to speak.

"John?"

"Yes?" It was very nice to have the upper hand for once.

"Would I be overstepping the line if I asked for another kiss?"

"No. It's all fine."

Angelo smiled by the cash register. It was all so very Romantic!


	84. Wrong

The slow ticking of the clock and the slight pinking of the night sky told him that the morning was on its way. John was sleeping. He had been sleeping for hours. Curled up on the sofa. Well not really curled up, John could almost stretch out full length on it. Sherlock had to curl up, or hang his legs over the arm. John was hugging the Union Flag Pillow. Some small part of Sherlock wished it was him.

The City was still quiet. A few Cabs driving past, a few early morning delivery vans. But the pulse of London had slowed to a death march. John turned in his sleep, now laying on his back, the material of his t-shirt pulled up to the bottom of his ribs, exposing a small strip of flesh and a dusting of blond hair. Sherlock blinked and turned his attention back to the window.

It was a little lighter now. Sherlock checked the time. Just after four. He couldn't wake John up. That would be not good. And besides, he liked watching him sleeping. At first it had been an experiment, a series of observations. But now, it was almost a ritual. Sherlock couldn't sleep, but somehow he found himself more rested if he watched John. As though John slept for the both of them.

Sherlock knew there was something wrong with him. Mycroft had always told him that caring was not an advantage. It was only recently that Sherlock had realised his brother had told him that because of how much he cared about him. Ironic. His cold, heartless big brother with his fastidious passion for order and control. The big brother who was capable of crushing countries with a word. Of making people disappear. He cared. Deep down.

The man asleep on the sofa right now. John had dedicated his life to caring for other people. People he didn't even know. The soldier he had been shot whilst trying to save. All the soldiers he had willingly walked through gunfire and brimstone for. Strangers. So when it came to the people he knew, what would John Watson not do? Take bullets? Shoot bullets? Face down the Hounds of Hell. Oh yes. And more. It was a different kind of caring. Another level.

Sherlock was surrounded by people who cared about him. So why could he not care himself? Why was he awake when everyone else was asleep? What was wrong with him?

SMS: What is wrong with me? S

The message came back seconds later. So he wasn't quite the only one awake.

SMS: Nothing is wrong with you. No go and join Dr Watson on the sofa. M

Sherlock pushed John over a little and curled in behind him. He listened to the slow beat of John's heart, and felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Then a thought occurred to him.

SMS: Have you got us under surveillance? S

SMS: Go to sleep Sherlock. M.


	85. Mistaken Identity

John had not had a nightmare for some time. Too much going on in his waking life. It managed to keep him occupied in his sleep as well. But tonight, tonight the stable door was opened and the Nightmares stampeded.

John was burning. Drowning in fire. The last terrifying moments amongst the living shot through with pain and high pitched laughter. Someone was calling him. It wasn't Sherlock. The voice was different. Familiar in a way that made his raw skin crawl. He needed to wake up. He needed someone to wake him up. He knew it was a dream. Nothing more. He told himself over and over as the flames licked around him and the air slowly vanished from his lungs. Just a dream. Just a bad dream.

Finally his head broke the surface. The air in his room was cool. Gentle light swimming into his half closed eyes from the nightlight. Yes, John Watson slept with the light on. He was awake, but teetering on the edge of consciousness, where the tendrils of the dream stroked lazily at his back, trying to pull under and in to the burning black . John forced himself to stand, his pyjamas rumpled, the ones Harry had bought him with Penfold on them. He forced himself to open the door and negotiate the short flight of stairs to the living room.

If he could find Sherlock he would be safe. That was all his half awake brain told him. Find Sherlock. Be safe. Be saved.

He blinked in the brighter light of the living room and made his bleary way to the figure sitting on the sofa. A figure sat in still contemplation, fingers steepled together. Head slightly bowed.

John curled up against him, his brain not quite registering the slight hesitation. John closed his eyes and nuzzled against the soft cashmere sweater, breathing in deeply to catch the scent of expensive leather, cigars, cinnamon and high end cologne. If his brain registered any of this, it was overridden by a sense of safety. He was safe. He could sleep.

From his seat by the fire Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother, now looking rather bemused, sat on the sofa. Mycroft looked down at the now fully asleep figure of John Watson leant up against him. He looked so peaceful. So happy. As though nothing could hurt him.

"Does he often do this?" Mycroft carefully moved his arm.

"He's actually mistaken you for me. "

"It must be some kind of post traumatic disorder. Fascinating."

"He mistook you for me. That is unbelievably insulting."

"Still he looks happy enough."

"I don't look anything like you. You don't look anything like me."

"Get over it Sherlock." Mycroft looked down at John Watson's smiling face. "He obviously thinks he is currently leant against you. That's why he's smiling. I suspect if he realised it was me he would be horrified."

"I'm going to wake him up. He can't stay there."

"Sherlock. Let him sleep." Blue eyes locked on Silver. And as a moment of unspoken understanding passed between the two brothers it was almost impossible to tell them apart.


	86. Big Brother

It was all a little confusing. The crime scene, crowded with Police Officers, the blue lights flashing. Noise. Questions. Movement. And suddenly a detective sergeant sat on the floor clutching his face and groaning. John looked down at the man now struggling on the dusty warehouse floor at his feet.

There had been a crunch. A sound like a green twig being twisted and snapped. There were two teeth on the floor. Knocked out, roots and all. John could tell. Just from the noise. The noise of bone on bone that the Sergeant on the floor had a broken jaw.

Sherlock had looked over, eyes narrowing for a moment, before going back to the body. A seventeen year old boy. Still partly dressed in his School Uniform, books and PE Kit scattered around him. Beaten. Cigarettes stubbed out on his forearms, a bruise on his cheekbone. The boys eyes, now empty and staring. And written on his chest, in permanent marker pen one word "Poof".

Sherlock had known straight away. The tears and snot still visible on the boys face and down the front of his torn shirt. He had been crying whilst they did this too him. The red raw inside of his throat. He had been shouting at them to stop. Or shouting for help. Or both. But everyone always seemed to become deaf when the bullies came out to play. Sherlock had announced to LeStrade, and anyone else who happened to be within earshot that they were looking for the boys classmates, not a pervert. There would be no sign of sexual assault. The boy had been bullied to death. Of course the bullies hadn't meant to do it. They never meant to do it. They never meant for anyone to get hurt.

And then the unknown Sergeant had uttered his ill chosen words. "Yeah, I bet that freak knows all about bullies." And he'd laughed. To himself and a couple of his sniggering colleagues. John had heard it and had felt the familiar feeling of rage boiling up inside him. He had meant to take a step forward and tell the Sergeant exactly what he thought of his witty comment. But then the Sergeant had been on the floor.

John looked to his left. Sherlock always made unkind remarks about Mycroft's weight. Remarks that John dismissed as ridiculous, just one way Sherlock had found to annoy his brother. But now, John was gaining a new appreciation of just what a big bloke Mycroft Holmes really was. Big enough to knock the burly, six foot tall sergeant on his arse with one punch. And inflict damage that was going to need surgery.

"If you ever talk about Sherlock like that again. I will end you. Understand?" The Sergeant whimpered his answer as Mycroft walked over to where his brother was talking to Inspector LeStrade.

"Never mess with the big brother." John left the wounded copper to be fussed over by his colleagues.

Just as he made it to where Mycroft and LeStrade were having a quietly animated discussion about something that was making them both smile, John noticed Sherlock by the body once more.

Sherlock reached out his hand to gently close the boy's eyes and said quietly "I'm Sorry."


	87. Tea

John liked tea. Fact. It helped him to think. Tea was the ultimate quick fix for so many problems. It woke you up, helped you sleep, relaxed you, got you ready to face the day. Everything. There were very few things that Tea did not make better.

Sherlock mocked him continuously for this. Sherlock did not believe in the magical powers of the tea cup. But then Sherlock had never brewed up under enemy fire. In fact Sherlock hardly ever made tea at all. John had accused Sherlock of being un-British to dislike tea. Sherlock had said he was half French any way and he didn't care what John thought. Then he had sulked on the sofa. Until John had brought him a cup of tea and three Jammie Dodgers. Then he stopped sulking and dunked his biscuits.

Sherlock made terrible tea. As a chemistry genius he really should have been able to make tea. But he couldn't. He either left the bag in too long and stewed it, or took it out too soon and served John something that tasted like lukewarm dishwater. If he used a pot and tea leaves it was like drinking a diluted garden. Generally you accepted tea from Sherlock as a last resort.

On the other hand John was a consummate expert at brewing tea. People commented on it. All the time. But John had a secret. Making tea was John's own personal safety valve. When he got mad, or upset, he made tea. Five minutes of prescribed activity to stop him blowing his stack. Put the kettle on. Warm the pot. Get the mugs. Check for body parts. Put the tea bags in. Add milk. Add sugar. Stir. Think happy thoughts. Calm down. Don't punch Sherlock. Simple.

John was having a bad day. One of those days when he realised by eleven O'clock that he probably should have just stayed in bed. So by the time he got back to Baker Street at Seven in the evening he was thoroughly miserable. He had spent the day in A & E getting covered in blood and vomit and God only knows what else. They had lost four patients, including one darling old lady who had insisted that a six year old boy had been treated ahead of her as she was only feeling a bit "Off colour" and whilst John was extracting a Hello kitty eraser from the little brat's nose, the Old lady had quietly stopped breathing.

He stomped up the stairs to Baker Street, grunted at Sherlock and ran himself a bath. He lay in the hot water letting the heat massage his eyes closed and soak the knots out of his muscles. He almost didn't notice. But for the slightly cool breeze he wouldn't have done. He sat up quickly. Sloshing water on to the floor. He mopped it up quickly, it wouldn't do to leak through Mrs Hudson's ceiling! And then John noticed the mug on the side of the bath. One RAMC mug full of steaming hot tea. And a plate containing some slightly damp custard creams. The tea wasn't actually that bad. Considering.

"SHERLOCK!"

"Yes John." He was right outside the door.

"Privacy!"

"Sorry John. You looked like you needed tea. You had your tea face on again."

"My what?"

"Never mind."

"Sherlock? Thank you." John relaxed back into the water and sipped his tea. Yes it made everything better. Even Sherlock.


	88. Sunday Lunch

John loved Sunday. Ever since he was very young. Back then Sunday had meant a big family dinner, playing football or rugby or cricket in the park with his dad and his cousins, then having a bath and watching the Muppet Show on telly whilst eating roast beef sandwiches and chocolate biscuits. Later on, Sunday had come to mean playing pool in the Student's Union. Doing laundry. Then Church Parade. Polishing everything. Even when he was in Afghanistan, Sunday had still seemed different. Special. As though on a Sunday the world slowed itself down half a turn. John hoped Sunday always stayed special. He never wanted Sunday to be just another day.

Sherlock hated Sunday. Ever since he was very young. Sunday was pointless. Getting dragged to Church by his mother, her gloved hand vice like on his own, the only recollection he had of his mother ever touching him. Being pressure fed into his best clothes. A horrible itchy suit. A shirt collar done up around his tiny neck and a tie slip knotted to the point of strangulation. Sunday was a claustrophobic nightmare. An endless procession of relatives and friends and having to sit still and quiet. Sunday was a pointless nothing. And later at school, Sunday was the day when Sherlock didn't have the safety of eight hours of lessons to hide from the bullies in. Sunday was an exercise in survival. Now Sunday was boring. When the whole world slowed down to a treacle crawl and there was nothing to keep Sherlock busy. Nothing to occupy his mind. The World stopped, but Sherlock's brain carried on at light speed regardless. He could not understand why the world was so concerned with just another day. A day where he couldn't run, so all the memories chasing him caught up.

John had made Sunday lunch, Roast Beef, Yorkshire Pudding, Roast Spuds, Veg, the works. There was even a fruit crumble slowly baking. He hadn't expected Sherlock to be ecstatic about Sunday Lunch. Sherlock rarely got excited about anything as mundane as food, unless it was to annoy Mycroft. John had once watched Sherlock eat an entire packet of Hob-Nobs in ten minutes to wind Mycroft up when he was on a diet. But he had not expected Sherlock to look angry, shooting John a look of disgust before retreating to his room and slamming the door. John gazed at the innocuous looking Sunday Roast and shook his head.

"Sherlock. What's the matter?" John knocked on the door.

"Leave me alone. I'm re-cataloguing my underwear."

"If you don't want lunch just say so."

"I don't want lunch."

John left it at that. He cut himself roughly a square foot of Pudding and began to chew. Two hours later John was dozing on the sofa. He thought maybe the second bowl of crumble had been a mistake. Sherlock, presumably having got his pant index in order, joined him on the sofa.

"Want to tell me what that was all about?"

"I don't like Sundays." Sherlock inched a little closer to John.

"Okay. Why don't you like Sundays?"

"They're boring." A little closer.

"You think every day someone isn't brutally and mysteriously murdered is boring. Why pick on Sunday?"

"Because everyone else does. Sunday's supposed to be all special only it isn't. It's just another day." Sherlock was inches away from John now. "Sunday is a boring, pointless day. If you want to eat your own body weight in vegetables fine, in fact go round and join my brother. I'm sure he'd be delighted."

"So Sunday's boring. Sunday's not special. I've eaten too many carrots and that's why you're upset?"

"I'm not upset."

"Yes. Of course. Then why are you hugging me?"

"I'm not...oh." The evidence was irrefutable. Sherlock Holmes was cuddled right up to John Watson on the sofa of 221B Baker Street.

"So why don't you really like Sunday?"

Sherlock swallowed twice and took a deep breath. He felt John's arm squeeze him close and he relaxed against him, drinking in the smell of aftershave and gravy and custard. He had never told anyone about the bullies. About the Sundays spent spitting blood and being humiliated, in every way possible. About how he longed for Monday morning and the sanctuary of double chemistry. He had never had anyone who would have understood. Until now.

"John. Were you born on a Sunday?"

"Yes. Yes I was." John smiled trying to remember the thing about the child born on the Sabbath Day.

"I've got something I need to tell you." Sherlock was still not convinced about Sundays being special. But he was a hundred percent sure John Watson was.


	89. Ending

He knew one day it would end. John wasn't an idiot. He knew despite all the promises and reassurances and stolen looks that nothing lasted forever. Not even for Sherlock Holmes. And especially not for John Watson. Everything had its time. Everything ended. But still John found himself to be angry. A terrible, gut wrenching rage that something or someone had decided that it was time to call last orders. And it was all horribly familiar.

People were shouting his name. And the ground beneath him was warm and wet. But his feet were cold. And his vision was fuzzing in and out. He knew this was it, his third strike, or perhaps his ninth life. He was ending.

It had been instinct. Nothing more. He knew how much it would hurt, he'd been there before. Only it hurt far more than he remembered. Perhaps because this time there was far more to lose. The bullet had socked cleanly in to him, leaving nothing more than a small round burn on the front of his jumper. The kind of hole he used to get in his clothes as a kid. The ones his Mother used to repair in a matter of minutes. But not this time. He watched Sherlock pull away hands covered in blood.

John's blood.

John watched with fading eyes as the masks fell away from Sherlock's face one by one. Until all that remained were liquid mercury eyes and a look of desolation. John had done that. In trying to save Sherlock, he had destroyed him. He had made him care and look where that had got them. John could feel his heart, beating thickly as it struggled to find blood to pump round his body.

He tried to scream. But all that left his mouth was breathy silence. Nothing surrounded him. This was it. Blind panic. As his body began to numb and go cold. And the only thing he could feel was Sherlock's hand, sticky with blood in his own as he was consumed by the darkness.

"John. John! Wake up. Please wake up John." Someone was shaking him. His eyes opened, meeting Sherlock's gunmetal gaze, full of concern. The grey eyes went wide with relief. John could feel his heart thudding in his chest. He was soaked with sweat, not blood. He was in his bed in Baker Street, not some cold nameless alleyway. He was alive.

And most importantly Sherlock was with him.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John." Sherlock sat back on the bed, trying to steady his breathing.

"What happened?"

"It was just a bad dream John. Everything's fine now. You're all right." Sherlock squeezed his hand. The last link between the dream and the real world. Sherlock holding his hand. Not letting go.

"Yes. Yes I am now." John relaxed back on to the pillow. "Just don't let go?"

"Never." Sherlock watched as John slowly drifted back to sleep. "I will never let you go, not now I've found you." He whispered, quite certain John would not hear him.

H

gbggg


	90. An Unpleasant Incident

**Warning: Homophobic Language. **

John did not like the word Gay. Especially not when it was applied to him. Nor was he keen on Queer, Faggot, Homo, Bum-bandit, Uphill gardener, Shirt-lifter or Fairy. But the one that got him spitting mad and ready to rip off the offending Homophobe's genitals and feed them to a passing dog, was the word Poof. There was just something about it that made his skin crawl. Usually it was preceded by the word "Little" and muttered under the breath accompanied by sniggering. In John's book if you were going to insult someone you did it properly, to their face. You stood and faced the object of your insult and said it clearly so they could hear you. And you took it seriously.

Sherlock was totally indifferent to the entire lexicon of derogative slang for Homosexual. They were just words. Words had no power. They only hurt if you allowed them to. And most of the insults were frankly pathetic. After all. He was called Freak, on a regular basis. To his face. So someone trying to mock him for his nonexistent sexuality. Really? Try harder. Except for that one word. There was just something about that word. It was like an attack dog signal for Sherlock.

"_You're that poofter Mycroft Holmes' brother. Are you a poof too?" And the fist slammed into his face on his first day at big school. They all laughed at him._

"_For God's sake Holmes, stop being such a poof. Kick the ball." And then the muddy, wet football smacked him straight in the back of the head. They all laughed at him._

"_There's no point in hanging around him darling, he's a poof. Why don't you try your luck with a real man?" And the girl he had been talking to walked off across the quad with the varsity rugby captain. And everyone else laughed at him._

Sherlock stood up from his table in the window of Angelo's and walked across to the group of inebriated city types. The floppy haired prats in their striped shirts and badly tailored suits.

"What did you just call my friend?" Sherlock looked at the table with deadly eyes.

"Is your little boyfriend upset? Sorry sweetie!" The table erupted into laughter.

"What did you call my friend?" he asked again. He just wanted them to say it one more time. Just once more to tip his anger cascading into the depths of lost reason. John had stood up and was now standing just behind Sherlock's left shoulder. John knew exactly what had been said. His hands clenched into fists.

"Oh my God. He's tiny!" Another laugh. "Your boyfriend's a Hobbit!" That nearly finished them off. Emboldened by the wit of their spokesman, someone else decided to have a go at the open mike.

"Hey Frodo." He was clearly addressing John now. "Are you the lord of his ring?"

"Why don't you two disgusting poofs piss off before you get hurt?" And that was it. Sherlock pulled back a little preparing to head butt the crap out of everyone but before he could move John hit the offending city boy so hard he split his knuckle down to the bone.

And before anyone else could move Angelo and four of his innumerable nephews had appeared with a vicious looking array of kitchen utensils.

"I think it's time you gents left." Angelo clearly indicated they really didn't have options. "We don't tolerate behaviour like that. Do we Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock shook his head, slowly calming as he realised he was surrounded by allies. John was still bristling next him. And seeing John's indignation every bit as raw as his own, Sherlock felt the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

It was probably more effective than a good kicking. Especially as Angelo, still holding a cleaver looked at the merchant bankers with a pleasant smile and said.

"But behaviour like that. We positively encourage. Now get out. And don't come back."

Angelo smiled. Only he noticed the unmarked van outside the window which his ejected customers suddenly found themselves dragged in to. And a little later only he noticed the sleek black car halt outside the Bistro. It stopped briefly. A few seconds to check on John and Sherlock, before pulling away.

Mycroft didn't like the word poof either.


	91. Feet

John Watson did not like feet. In his professional life he got up close and personal with most of the more disgusting parts of the body and their associated fluids. But the thing that on occasion made him feel just slightly nauseous was feet. He didn't really know why. Couldn't pinpoint an exact moment. There was no traumatic foot experience as a child. But he would rather be up to his elbow in someone's digestive system than have to look at an in-growing toenail.

And then of course, there were Sherlock's feet.

Like the rest of him, Sherlock's feet were pale, elegant and bony in the extreme. And for a man who indexed his socks into type, category, pattern, colour and age, Sherlock seemed to spend a large amount of time barefoot. Socks were boring, their capacity to be filed notwithstanding. John found himself suggesting they go out, found himself hoping someone would be brutally murdered with a tin opener so they could leave the flat and Sherlock would have to put shoes on. It was a lot not good.

John was peacefully sitting on the sofa enjoying a cup of tea and some Super Noodles when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. He announce that his latest experiment was finished with and flounced over to the sofa. Adding thoughtfully that if John wanted the bathroom, it might be best to give it ten minutes or so.

Sherlock curled up onto the sofa, folding his long legs up and underneath. John noticed the feet immediately. He shuddered and put his plate down on the table. The two bony extremities looked accusingly at him whilst Sherlock concentrated on ruining another episode of Doctor Who. John would not actually be surprised if Moriarty had secretly been employed by Russell T Davies.

"That is ridiculous! How can those bin things suddenly go up stairs? Last week they couldn't go up stairs and now they can fly! That is just cheating. And what happened to the Doctor Bloke's scarf? And his hair? And where did those ears come from?"

"This is a different Doctor." John inched away from Sherlock's big toe.

"I liked that scarf!" Sherlock stretched out into the space John had vacated, the sole of his left foot coming into contact with John's thigh. John shivered, trying desperately to think up an excuse.

"Erm, do you want tea? I want tea."

"You've got tea." Sherlock pointed at the full mug on the coffee table. Or maybe it should have been a tea table? John told himself to focus.

"It's cold." As soon as he said it he realised his folly. The tea mocked him by sending a little puff of steam up into the air.

"What on earth is the matter with you John?" Sherlock looked at his squirming flatmate.

"Nothing." John looked at the size tens poking him. "Actually." Deep breath.

"You are a Podophobe."

"I beg your pardon?" John wasn't quite sure he had heard him correctly.

"You have a fear of feet."

"I am not afraid of feet! I was a soldier. I shot people, remember?"

"Did you shoot them in the feet?" Sherlock poked his toes a little more forcefully in to John's leg. The evil git was doing it on purpose. Using his foot as a weapon!

"Shut up. I'm not afraid of feet. I just don't like them. Like you and Women."

"I hardly think the two are comparable."

"Yeah well you wouldn't!" John huffed and went back to stuffing cold noodles into his mouth. He knew he shouldn't have said anything. Idiot.

"Fine." Sherlock removed his person from the sofa. John let out a sigh of relief. A short lived relief when he heard Sherlock coming back a few moments later. His footsteps sounded slightly muffled. Sherlock resumed his position on the sofa without comment. John broke the silence.

"What are they?" He pointed at Sherlock's now hidden feet.

"They were a Christmas gift from Mycroft. I daresay he thought they were amusing. I have no idea what goes on in that cake-addled brain of his." He paused. "Although I must say they are rather comfortable. And they do solve your little problem quite nicely." He wiggled his ankle for emphasis.

John peered down, and then relaxed back into the sofa. It was all fine. Sherlock's feet were safely hidden in a pair of fluffy black and white slippers. When he put his feet together they formed a Skull and Crossbones. John made a mental note to send Mycroft something nice as a thank you for solving the problem of the devil's feet.


	92. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Mrs Hudson had just clipped Sherlock around the back of the head. Properly. He scowled.

"Now be quiet and eat your vegetables." She shrilled at him. Her countenance said it would brook no argument. Sherlock reluctantly picked up his fork and began to shovel peas and sweet corn into his mouth, in what he obviously thought was a contemptuous way. Mrs Hudson ignored him.

John was enjoying himself immensely. If he'd known that all it took to get Sherlock to eat was to set Mrs Hudson on him, he would have done it ages ago. John was also enjoying the fact that sat opposite him at Mrs Hudson's dining table was a deliciously uncomfortable looking Mycroft Holmes. Usually John did not revel in the misfortune of others. But there was something rather nice about watching the two cleverest men in the world reduced to sulky schoolboys by one ferocious old lady.

Mycroft had turned up just as Mrs Hudson was insisting that John and Sherlock joined her for dinner. John said yes immediately. Mrs Hudson was a fabulous cook. Sometimes John really wished she was his housekeeper not his landlady. It seemed a fair trade for being stuffed that he would have to do the washing up. At least you could get to Mrs Hudson's sink. She had immediately extended the invitation to Mycroft.

Mycroft Holmes had in his time, managed to broker treaties between countries that had been at war since their creation. He had negotiated cease fires, he had talked Prime Minister's out of war and King's out of abdication. But he could not find an excuse that was an acceptable reason for not having dinner with Mrs Hudson.

"You just sit down Mycroft Holmes. I'm sure the country will manage for an hour without you."

"It will take more than an hour Mrs Hudson. Have you seen him eat?" Sherlock just could not help himself.

"Really Mrs Hudson, I have a cabinet meeting I must attend."

"You can attend after you've had something to eat."

"It's all right Mycroft. She always makes enough to feed an army. Almost as though she's expecting you."

"Buggar off Sherlock."

"Mycroft. Language!"

"Apologies Mrs Hudson."

And that was how it had started. Mycroft was on his second helping of Steak and Kidney Pie. Mrs Hudson kept piling food on his plate with an indulgent look.

"This really is delicious Mrs Hudson." He said between mouthfuls.

"My brother has never met a pie he didn't think was delicious. How is the diet Mycroft? You are looking a bit chubby." Sherlock smirked and chewed a piece of Steak. Mycroft put his fork down, embarrassed.

"Absolute nonsense Sherlock. He's skin and bones, poor love." She patted Mycroft's shoulder maternally and gave him another spoon full of mashed potatoes. Then she turned her basilisk gaze upon the World's Only, and John suspected, soon to be extinct, Consulting Detective. "And as for you Sherlock Holmes. He is your brother. Your big brother. I really wish you would learn to understand that. The only thing we have in this world is family." And then she had told him to shut up and eat his vegetables.

John kept quiet.

"Now who would like some blackberry and apple crumble?"

"Yes please Mrs Hudson." Mycroft and Sherlock both spoke at the same time.

The only thing we had in this world was family. Even if you had to make your own.


	93. Blogging

When John returned from work he was unsurprised to see Sherlock sat at the table staring intently at his laptop. Well at John's laptop. However John was a little taken aback to see that Sherlock was not alone. Also gazing with interest at the screen, Frank the Hippo was perched in front of the Detective.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?" Frank was John's Hippo. Irrational as it was, John felt slightly betrayed. Slightly uncomfortable. An itching at the back of his head.

"Fascinating!"

"What. What have you done?"

"Experiment. I was bored."

"An Experiment? With My Hippo?" John was close to shouting.

"Do calm down John. I just set him up an email account. Look!"

John peered at the screen more closely. Sure enough there were a series of emails in the inbox all addressed to _**frankthehippo**_.

"And his blog is very popular. More popular than yours actually. He's had three thousand hits in two days." Sherlock switched windows. Frank, perched inside Sherlock's Deerstalker, with a magnifying glass between his front paws, peered out from the screen. _**"Hippopota- Pedology"**_

"My Hippo has a Blog?"

"Yes."

"You are a very bad man. I'm making tea." John huffed over to the kettle.

"Two sugars please."

"I'm not making you one. Git!" John got a single mug out of the cupboard to illustrate the point.

"He's only jealous Frank." Sherlock was now talking to the Hippo. John was rapidly approaching livid he felt this was somehow an unforgivable invasion of his privacy.

"Anyway what could Frank...or you possibly Blog about?"

"Mud. "

"Mud? You are blogging about mud?"

"And soil samples. There's a delightful email from a 10 year old boy who has been inspired to go out and catalogue the soil of all the gardens on his street."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? I thought you'd be pleased. I'm interacting with people. Well I'm helping Frank to interact with people. He's fine with it."

And John Watson found himself saying the words he never thought would ever leave his mouth.

"Frank is a soft toy. He's not real!" Stunned silence followed. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. Mr Punchline was lost for words. Frank looked offended. John dropped the spoon on the floor. It clattered like an out-of-tuning fork in the quiet. Then without pausing to pick it up, John stormed up to his room leaving a puzzled Sherlock watching the hit counter increase on Frank's Blog.

"I think it would be wise if we kept the Skull's Blog to ourselves." Sherlock gave Frank a reassuring pat and decided to call Mycroft for some brotherly advice. Sherlock had the horrible feeling he had just broken something precious.


	94. Brotherly Advice

Sherlock was trying very hard to remember the last time he had seen Mycroft quite so annoyed with him. He narrowed it down to Boxing Day, 1987. But not since the incident involving Mycroft's Aston Martin and four pints of Lime jelly, could Sherlock remember his brother shouting at him so much.

Mycroft had called him an idiotic, selfish, front bottom. Only not using those exact words. Sherlock suspected Mycroft had learnt the colourful phrases during his stint on secondment on The Ark Royal. It would have been amusing but for the look on Mycroft's face. The look that said he was only just getting started and that Sherlock had properly done it this time. Normally, getting his brother quite so apoplectic would have given Sherlock a warm glow that lasted for weeks. But this was different. And more to the point, Sherlock wasn't quite sure what he had done.

"I only set up a blog for the Hippo."

"You do not deserve John Watson. You deserve to be taken out, stripped naked and pelted with offal in Spitalfield's Market!" That was not the brotherly advice he had been hoping for. Sherlock was confused. He found John Watson confusing. John made him confused. John made him feel all fuzzy and strange. John made Sherlock Ordinary.

"I don't understand." That stopped Mycroft's rainbow hued streak dead.

"What did you just say Sherlock?"

"I don't understand?" Those words had never. In thirty five years. Ever. Left Sherlock's lips within earshot of Mycroft.

"Are you telling me that you don't realise why Doctor Watson is annoyed with you?"

"No."

"Not a clue?"

"I have no data. He said the Hippo wasn't real. It's about the Hippo?"

"No Sherlock. It is nothing to do with the Hippo. As serious as your invasion of the sanctity of Doctor Watson's Hippo was the Hippo is not the issue."

"But..."

"Sit down and shut up before I staple your lips together." Mycroft's face was slowly reaching the same colour as his hair.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something about Mycroft watching his blood pressure, and decided against it. There was a vicious looking stapler sat on the desk.

"Doctor Watson is not upset about the Hippo. He is upset about the blog. Doctor Watson is your Blogger. Your Boswell. In setting up a blog for the Hippo you are saying to John that you do not value him. You do not take his blog seriously. You can blog as well and you can do it much better than he can. In other words you have just told Doctor John Watson that you do not need him. And that may well be the most stupid thing you have ever done." There was ringing silence as the enormity of Mycroft's words settled like dust on Sherlock's brain.

"Oh."

"Yes. Oh!" Mycroft loosened his tie and poured himself a large brandy.

"But he can't think that? Can he?" The answer was the raise of a sardonic eyebrow. "Mycroft, what do I do? I'd be completely lost without my Boswell. Help me? Please? Make it better?"

Mycroft sighed. It was rather touching that Sherlock really did believe his brother could fix everything. He took another sip of brandy and fixed Sherlock with his icy gaze. An awkward moment passed before he relented and smiled. And one smile was all it took for Sherlock to throw his arms around his brother's neck and sob.

"I'm sorry Mycroft."


	95. Burning Up on ReEntry

Frank was looking at John Watson very sternly. Well as sternly as you could manage when you were plush. Which was actually quite stern. John was listlessly stirring his tea. The only thing that could be heard in Baker Street was the ticking of the clock and the gentle chink of teaspoon against mug.

"Sorry Frank." John sighed and scratched Frank's nose. The Hippo looked back at him. Slightly less stern. Had Frank been able to articulate his feelings more thoroughly he would have communicated his opinion that John was an idiot. John had over-reacted to something completely trivial.

"It's like he doesn't need me. And he tells me every day in a hundred ways. And he doesn't even know he's doing it."

_Yes. Thought Frank. He doesn't know what he's doing. _

"I'm no use to him at all. He's brilliant. All the time. And I just write a stupid blog about it. It's like everyone wants to be friends with the cool kids at school. Reflected glory. That's me. " He took another sip of tea and looked at the Hippo.

_Oh John. Frank looked sadly at his little soldier. You really have no idea do you?_

"That's a very wise Hippopotamus, Doctor Watson." John nearly left his skin behind as he turned in his seat to see Mycroft Holmes framed in the doorway. He could have sworn Mycroft got taller every time he saw him.

"How did you get in here?" John turned his attention back to his tea.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" Mycroft did that thing with his eyebrows that usually made John go all tingly.

"No. I don't suppose I do." John was not feeling in a tingly mood.

Mycroft sat down opposite John. He was in his off duty clothes as John thought of them. But really, who had tailor-made jeans? Mycroft reached out a large, elegant hand to stroke Frank behind the ear.

"Sometimes staying silent is the best policy." There was a pause. "My brother is an idiot John. And I really wish there was something I could do about that."

"I thought you didn't think caring was an advantage?"

"For me it isn't. But for you? It's what you do."

"Yeah. Because I'm stupid."

"Why do you think that?"

"I'm useless. I don't do anything. I just sit there and let Sherlock be clever and brilliant and then write a stupid blog about it. A stupid blog that he could write himself, if he wasn't too busy being clever and brilliant. Oh and every so often I beat people up, or shoot dogs. Yeah really usefull."

"I've just approved the plans for the new Space Shuttle."

"What?"

"Oh it's a marvellous thing. A laboratory in space. Imagine that? Imagine what we might find. What we might discover. What brilliant things it might bring to the world."

"If you're trying to make me feel better by changing the subject it's not working."

"And do you know what the two most important parts of it are? All that technology?"

"No." John was getting slightly unnerved by the pale blue eyes that were now staring intensely at his face.

"The two most important parts of all are the communications system and the heat shields. You see the thing can fly around in space being as brilliant and clever as it likes, but if the com link doesn't work the data doesn't get sent back to earth, so no one knows how brilliant and clever it is and it's all rather pointless."

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to look away from Mycroft's gaze before he was turned to stone. He cast his eyes down and was met by the medusa stare of his Hippo.

"And the heat shields of course. All that amazing technology, all that brilliance, absolutely no use at all, if when it comes back to earth it burns up on re-entry. Because all of that brilliance would be burned up and lost."

"Yes. I suppose it would be."

"Ordinary things John. Regrettably they are often over looked. But that doesn't mean for one moment that they are not important. That they are not needed." The blue eyes were gentler now. "Sherlock is waiting for you in Angelo's. I recommend the Tiramisu. Please forgive him John. He can't help being stupid."

Mycroft patted Frank on the head once more and stood to leave.

"Do you really think he's stupid?" John sensed there was more to that statement.

"Yes John I do. " A deep breath and a sad smile. Mycroft never smiled. Not properly. This was going to be bad. "If I had met you first Doctor John Hamish Watson, I would have ensured that you never felt taken for granted ever again. Have a nice meal."

And Mycroft was gone. Frank looked up from the table. John looked down at Frank. There was silence.


	96. The Measure of Mycroft

Silence between friends should never be uncomfortable. Or so the old saying goes. But currently the silence from Sherlock was excruciating. John felt he owed it to Mycroft to turn up at the restaurant, even if the last thing he wanted to do was sit in a public place with Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't sulking. Sherlock wasn't talking. Sherlock wasn't even looking around at the other tables and getting everyone's life history. It was far worse than that.

John did not know what had passed between Sherlock and his brother. He suspected that Mycroft had fixed his sibling with that unnerving icy stare and then scared the be-Jesus out of him. If that was possible? If it was John was fairly sure Mycroft could do it. He'd managed to upend John's entire existence with a few words and those cold eyes. What damage he could really do if he put his mind to it? John didn't want to think about it. Really. Not think about it ever.

The Tiramisu was excellent. John should have been enjoying it. But he was simply shoving mechanical spoonfuls in to his mouth. Hardly tasting it. Sherlock raised his eyes to watch John briefly, and then pushed his own dessert around the plate some more. And then he finally spoke.

"Mycroft said I was an idiot."

"Yeah he told me you were an idiot too."

"He's probably right." Sherlock mumbled.

"What was that? Didn't quite catch that."

"I said: He's probably right."

"You think Mycroft's probably right? You!"

"Yes." Sherlock shoved a mouthful of dessert into his mouth. John suspected it was to give him something to do. A distraction.

"So?"

"So?"

"Where do we go from here? "

"Mycroft says I should say that I'm sorry."

"Go on then."

"What?"

"Say you're sorry. Apologise." Silence. John knew Sherlock was sorry. He knew by the way that Sherlock had eaten his Lasagne without a word of protest. He knew by the way he held his shoulders. The way the silver eyes filled with watery confusion. And he knew Sherlock was holding on to the edge of his own cliff of misery by his finger nails. And he knew that if Sherlock lost his grip he had a long way to fall before he landed.

"I'm Sorry John. I am. I couldn't last five minutes without you. I would be worse than dead."

"Worse than dead?"

"Yes. Mycroft told me. He told me exactly what I would be without you. And I would rather die."

"What did he tell you?" John was thinking that he'd got off rather lightly with the nice little story about the Space Shuttle. "What did he say you would be?"

"He told me that without you. I would be him."

And not for the first time John thought for a man who professed not to have a heart, not to care, not to feel, Mycroft Holmes seemed to know an awful lot about it all. And suddenly John was sorry too.


	97. The Lonely God

John Watson sometimes wondered if there weren't two Mycroft Holmes. Using Sherlock's own maxim of eliminating the impossible, it seemed a reasonable, if slightly improbable assumption that fitted the facts. Mycroft appeared to sleep even less than Sherlock. Mycroft was always immaculately turned out, regardless of the time of day. Always perfectly groomed. And one minute he was threatening some Despot with a fate worse that a fate worse than death. The next minute he was gently dusting off the little brother that hated him and fixing all the things Sherlock had managed to break that day.

Mycroft juggled a hundred things at once. A hundred things with earth shattering consequences should they be dropped. If for one moment his concentration should waver. Add Sherlock into the balancing act and it was like juggling a hundred things whilst riding a unicycle on a tightrope.

And it seemed he did all of it alone.

Yes there were the assistants. Anthea, who was at his beck and call, Blackberry in hand, ever present. And Jonathan, the young man who had acted as John's Lawyer the time he had punched Dr Anderson. A whole staff of agents, armed guards, experts. All paid to do what he said. But no friends.

And certainly no one to come home to at the end of the day. But himself.

Not like John. Okay, so the chances of Sherlock actually having dinner waiting when John got back from a shift at the Hospital were remote. In fact the chances of him actually having moved from the spot John left him in that morning were remote. But that wasn't the point. The point was he was there.

Sherlock would be there at Baker Street. Even if he was out, he was still there in some form. The dirty mugs left in the sink. The noxious chemicals bubbling away in the bathroom. The random foot in the fridge. And yes it drove John crazy. It made him mad. It got him riled up in a hundred ways.

But every one of those hundred reminded him that he wasn't alone.

If Sherlock wasn't there John would be sitting in silence. Sat in nothing. John knew.

And Sherlock. He claimed not to have friends. But he was surrounded by people. Mrs Hudson, Mike, Inspector LeStrade, Inspector Bradstreet, Molly, Angelo, numerous and innumerable people from the streets of the city. Whether he liked it or not, Sherlock was never alone.

John sat next to Sherlock on the window seat watching the sunrise. A cloudless sky, a glorious pink glow, and tiny diamonds of frost on the crunchy pavements. John tilted his head against Sherlock's shoulder. Never alone.

"Stop thinking about Mycroft, John. Its spoiling the sunrise." There was a pause.

"Do you think he's lonely?"

"No. I think he's far worse than lonely. He's alone. With himself. Kind of like your Doctor Who bloke."

"Mycroft's like Doctor Who?"

"What they always say- _he's not just a time lord, he's the last of the time lords_. Mycroft's the only one. Of course unlike Doctor Who he doesn't have two hearts. He hasn't got any. And fortunately for everyone on this earth he's not immortal. And even more fortunately he has someone to stop him. Me. My brother: the lonely God."

John shuddered and moved closer to Sherlock.

Mycroft watched the sun rising and turning Whitehall orange. And then he turned his attention back to his paperwork. His office was large. Huge in fact. At some point it had been one of the Cabinet rooms. Designed to be filled with people. Now it was just him. Alone.


	98. An Accident

**(For May Eve, IBegtoDreamandDiffer and every one else who asked. It has to get worse before it gets better. Trust me on this!)**

John was woken from a rather excellent dream about a blue octopus. One moment he was resting peacefully in the Cephalopod's languid tentacles, the next he was wrenched back in to the land of awake by a bony set of fingers poking him in the side.

"John. John wake up." Sherlock's face was paler than usual, his eyes anxious.

"What's the matter? What time is it?"

"Three in the morning. There's been an accident."

"An accident?" That could mean anything from an injured stuffed tiger to a nuclear bomb going off outside Buckingham Palace.

"Mycroft. And his assistant. And his driver. They think it was some kind of terrorist attack."

John sat bolt upright. All of the fluffy deserting him in an instant and being replaced with the sleek make up of the soldier and surgeon. He pulled on his jeans.

"Right. Where have they taken them? "

"There's a car waiting downstairs."

As they left Baker Street, Mrs Hudson waved them off with a worried expression on her face. She pulled her pink fleecy dressing gown around her shoulders and pressed a small Tupperware box into John's hands. Fairy Cakes. For Mycroft. Coffee and Walnut. Because they were his favourite.

The hospital was buzzing. On station one alert, the status reserved for the Prime Minister or the Monarch. But then John thought Mycroft was probably higher than both of those put together. What was higher than a station one? A station one point one? Four armed soldiers had saluted him when he walked in to the hospital. The corridors were lined with secret service.

They were shown in to a room filled with gentle light and soft armchairs. The relatives' room, as John recognised it. And they sat and waited.

Ten minutes later the door was opened and a tall man in a suit slinked in. He introduced himself as Anthony Frobisher, he worked for the same department as Mycroft. The department of mysteries John thought to himself. Sherlock had been silent the whole time. But John could feel him taking in every atom of Anthony Frobisher, weighing him up, deducing him.

"Thank you for coming Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid I can't tell you much at the moment."

"Is he still alive?" Sherlock's voice was flat. No emotion.

"Yes. Yes he is." Anthony was pale. "He's in surgery now. I'm told the damage is mainly cosmetic. He was hit by a large amount of broken glass and flying debris. He was shielding his assistant at the time. She escaped with a few minor cuts and bruises. The driver wasn't so lucky."

"Martin." Again the flat voice.

"Sorry?"

"Mycroft's driver's name is Martin."

"Yes. Of course." The awkward silence was interrupted by the door opening and a man in surgical scrubs limping in. Sherlock looked up with interest. _Ex Army by the set of his shoulders. No not Army, Royal Navy different kind of deportment. Wounded badly, the limp's genuine not psychosomatic. Discharged a while ago. No tan. But still has his hair cut to regulations. Hoping to be recalled to service. Never happen, not with that injury. Injuries. Scars down his neck, on his face. Shrapnel. IED. Younger than he looks. Grey hairs .In pain. Wants to go back. Nothing for him here. Single. Gay. Maybe Bi? He's just checked me out. Quickly. Decided I'm out of his league. Looked over John. Thinks he's straight. Not his type anyway. Prefers them taller. Older. Fatter?_

Sherlock really wanted the voice in his head to shut up. It was shouting ridiculous ideas at him now.

"Mr Holmes, this is Marcus Hatch, he's the senior duty surgeon."

"Doctor Hatch." Sherlock held out his hand. Warmly. "How is my darling elder brother?"

"Awake and Insufferable. I'm assuming that's a good sign." Doctor Hatch smiled crookedly, the crinkles that appeared accentuating the scarring. Sherlock blew out a sigh of relief and put his arms around John's neck, kissing him.

"It's the very best sign."


	99. Doctor Marcus Hatch

"Does that mean what I think it does?" Sherlock indicated the screen of John's laptop. John peered over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

"Well it's a very serious injury certainly. Hang on. Is that someone's military medical records?"

"It might be."

"With my laptop? Sherlock that's illegal. We've talked about this. If you are going to hack in to any where that carries a minimum jail sentence you use your own laptop." Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow, for a split second looking very much like Mycroft.

"I just wanted to check that Mycroft is getting the best possible care. It seems Doctor Hatch is damaged goods."

"It seems Doctor Hatch is bloody lucky to be alive." John continued to read the list of injuries. Suddenly one bullet to the shoulder and a few cuts and bruises seemed to be getting off lightly.

"According to his service records he was a very good Doctor. Navy Surgeon Captain. He has a lot of medals as well. Which either means he's very brave or very stupid." John hit Sherlock around the back of the head. Hard.

"Have some respect will you. And some compassion. That could have been me!"

"Sorry."

"Anyway. Why all the sudden interest?"

"I just wanted to see if Doctor Hatch might be a suitable partner for my brother."

"Partner? As in boyfriend?" John couldn't help but smile. It was so typically, infuriatingly Sherlock.

"Yes. Mycroft obviously likes you. He always has done. But his terrible sense of propriety stops him from doing anything about it. That and the fact that he's so lazy it makes you feel tired. But I've seen how he looks at you."

"How he looks at me?"

"When he thinks no one is watching. All sort of sad and confused. So I thought that..."

"You thought if you got him one of his own, he'd leave yours alone?" John was bordering on huff-mode.

"It wasn't quite like that." Sherlock clicked through a few screens of Marcus Stephen Hatch's service records. And sighed. It seemed he wasn't quite what Sherlock was looking for. As much as it pained him to admit, there were things you just could not tell about people with a cursory glance.

"Actually John." He paused as though he was chewing over something epic in his head. "I know Mycroft and I give the impression we dislike one another, but it's not true."

"I did work that out for myself."

"And I know how unhappy he is. Because I was that unhappy as well. And then I met you. I want Mycroft to have someone he can run with and dance with and laugh with. And most of all someone to stop him. Someone that isn't me. Someone like you."

"What if he doesn't want that?"

"I think what someone wants, and what they need is sometimes very different."

And John had to agree.

Every single atom of Mycroft's body hurt. His bones were made of razor blades and his skin was powdered glass. He was hot. Burning. Perhaps he was dead and had ended up in hell. Just like everyone thought he would. It was dark. So very dark. And he was alone. Alone with himself. And he wanted to scream, only he couldn't. And then there was light. Blurry, gentle daylight. And cool hands on the back of his head. And reassuring words. And the pain was not quite so bad.

The face he saw when he opened his eyes was not the one he had hoped for. The face, which if there really was a merciful God, would be watching over him. But never the less this must be the face of some sort of angel, albeit a rather scarred and battered one.

"It's okay. Mycroft. You're okay. Don't try to talk." The voice spoke with gentle authority. The face smiled kindly. Someone was carefully holding his hand. He squeezed, just to make sure this was real, and was reassured when he felt a squeezed answer.

Even if this was hell, at least he was no longer on his own.


	100. The Kindness of Strangers

It was stupid really. Everything that had happened and the thing he was most upset about was his hair. They'd had to cut it in order to stitch up the wounds on the back of his head. Well Cut was overstating it. Hacked chunks of it away until the only thing that could be done was to shave the whole lot off and start again. Mycroft ran a bruised hand through the gingery stubble on his head and sighed.

Sherlock would mock him. Fat Jokes and Bald Jokes. He could hardly wait.

Other than that it seemed Doctor Hatch had done a very thorough job. A lot of the cuts had been glued rather than stitched to minimise scarring. The Doctor had managed to catalogue every piece of glass and shrapnel as it was removed in order to help the forensic team with their investigation. And he called in at least twice every day to make sure Mycroft was on the mend.

Mycroft actually found himself looking forward to the visits. More than the visits from Sherlock at any rate.

The room was covered in get well cards. Most of them from colleagues and ambassadors and heads of state. Her Majesty had sent a large fruit basket and a delightful note. Although the cards that held pride of place were a monstrosity with cats in a basket on it from Mrs Hudson which she had sent along with a large tin of cakes; A humorous effort with a Bloodhound with a thermometer in its mouth from everyone at Scotland Yard; A generic Get Well Soon that had been accompanied by a quantity of Tiramisu from Angelo and Family and a handmade card with a picture of a giraffe with a bandage around its head from Nicky.

And John Watson had appeared rather shyly one morning with a carrier bag whilst Mycroft was half asleep. By the time he was fully awake John was gone. But in his stead there was a Hippo sat rather smugly on the top of a bunch of grapes. Mycroft thought John must be really concerned to lend him his lucky Hippo.

He had received no card from Sherlock. Not that he'd been expecting one, but it seemed he was to be surrounded by the best wishes of strangers, not friends and family.

Doctor Hatch leant over the bed and shone a light into Mycroft's eyes.

"Well that all seems to be fine Mr. Holmes. Are you experiencing any headaches, dizziness, nausea at all?"

"No. Just a little soreness."

"Is the pain medication helping with that?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Right. Well, you're still a little dehydrated so I'm going to increase your fluids."

"Any chance of a Gin and Tonic?"

"None Whatsoever. Not even for ready money." Hatch gave Mycroft one of his shattered grins. And Mycroft noticed for the first time just how lovely the Doctor's eyes were. They were yellow. An exquisite golden colour. Very unusual. Almost unearthly. Like looking into the sun.

"Your eyes are beautiful." He said it without thinking. So many drugs washing around his system that it seemed the tight rein on his emotions was coming loose.

"Thank you. Makes up for the rest of me." The brief silence wasn't awkward, but rather loaded with unspoken words. "Now as much as I enjoy flirting with handsome men I'm going to have to go, otherwise I will incur the wrath of Matron."

"And that would never do." Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. Even his eyebrows hurt.

Mycroft watched Doctor Hatch limp from the room. He felt better.


	101. Heroes

Doctor Hatch was wearing a particularly alluring aftershave.

Mycroft shook his head, wondering how that thought had sneaked in whilst he was looking the other way. Or more correctly looking at the Doctor's rather broad shoulders. Today Doctor Hatch was wearing a pale blue shirt and a tastefully striped tie instead of his usual surgical clothes. The collar button was undone and the tie loosened just enough to be able to see the pale skin underneath and a few sprigs of golden-red chest hair.

Mycroft shook his head more violently. What was wrong with him? He was behaving like a teenager with a crush on his teacher. It would not do at all.

To say John Watson was a little miffed with Sherlock would be an understatement. In fact John was at the point where not even the tried and tested tea-method was going to stop him from whacking Sherlock. Of course he needn't have worried. Mrs Hudson got there first and clouted Sherlock around the back of his head, causing him to nearly remove his eyeball with the microscope.

"What was that for?"

"Why have you not been to see your brother?" Mrs Hudson deposited another tin down on the counter. This one contained several homemade mini Battenberg which John was under instruction to deliver to Mycroft later that day. Apparently Mrs H had made discreet enquiries into the cake preferences of minor government officials.

"Why would I go to see my brother?"

"He's in hospital."

"I am aware of that. Again why would I go to see my brother?"

"That's what people do!" Mrs Hudson shrieked at him. John decided to retreat to the safety of the sofa. And the solace of his mug of tea.

"He is your brother! He's been seriously hurt poor love. And you just sit there as if you don't care." She was on a roll.

"Caring is not an advantage Mrs Hudson. As my brother is so fond of saying. However once I have finished analysing these samples that the forensics people so kindly gave me, I will know who attempted to kill Mycroft. And then they may be brought to justice. Or made to disappear. I believe that to be a far more profitable use of my time than sitting in a hospital watching my brother gorge himself on your baking. He's getting rather porky with all the cake, so I'm told."

Mrs Hudson glared at the back of Sherlock's head. He shifted uncomfortably, knowing she was giving him her patented death stare.

"That's it!" He leapt up from the table. "I know who did it."

Mrs Hudson shook her head and left him to it.

They had drawn the curtains in Mycroft's room. The bright light of the day hurt his eyes. He was grateful for the cool twilight. It helped him concentrate. No distractions. Other than the splinters in his back every time he moved. And someone would pay for that. Pay dearly. He relaxed his mind, allowing it to stretch and flow. It was a trick he had never managed to teach Sherlock. Sherlock relied on data. That was why he was always running around collecting it. But Mycroft could see everything without ever leaving the comfort of his own room. If Sherlock was brilliant, Mycroft was brilliance squared.

Mycroft knew why his brother had not visited. Not once he knew Mycroft was alive. There were two reasons. The first: Sherlock would be collecting data, finding out who did it. That would be his "Get Well Soon" gift to Mycroft. Someone's head on a platter. He wouldn't sleep, wouldn't eat, wouldn't stop until he found the answer.

And the second reason? Sherlock was angry at Mycroft. The same confused anger Mycroft had seen all those years ago when he had broken his arm. The fear in the silver eyes as the horrible truth was revealed. Mycroft was not indestructible. He was just as flawed and just as human as everyone else.

"Don't make people in to heroes Sherlock." He could hear himself saying it. "Heroes don't exist. And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

Mycroft closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink into the pillows. He needed to sleep.


	102. Misunderstanding

Mycroft would swear to Sherlock later on that it had been a complete accident. Sherlock simply smiled smugly at him, implying that it had all been a carefully calculated ploy. Infuriating little turd!

Mycroft had been taking a shower in the en-suite of his private hospital room. He really needed a shower. And had promised to be careful. But had declined the assistance of a male nurse, a rather cheerful chap called Ian. Mycroft had decided that the staff at the hospital had already seen far too much of him. And he was doing really well until the shower gel slipped from his grasp and he bent down to retrieve it. Suddenly his head was full of blood and his legs were empty. He crumpled onto the floor with a crash far louder than his slender frame should have made and lay there trying to lift his head out of the soapy water.

And then the water was turned off and strong hands were checking him over for injuries. For more injuries. And then he was being lifted onto his bed, where someone covered his genitals and his subsequent mortification, up with a towel, a gesture that he was eternally grateful for. Especially when he opened his eyes.

Doctor Hatch was dripping wet. His short hair was sticking up Tin-Tin style at the front. The effect would have been quite comical had Mycroft not been squirming with embarrassment. Why, of all people to have found him naked on the floor of the shower, did it have to be Doctor Hatch? They were connecting him back up to various IVs and monitors. It all seemed like a great deal of fuss.

A nurse handed Doctor Hatch a dry scrubs top and he peeled off his tie and shirt, placing the soaked clothing in the basin. It only took a few seconds. But then a few seconds was all Mycroft ever needed to see everything. Mycroft quickly averted his gaze. But it was too late. The Doctor had seen him staring. He must be used to people staring. But just because you were used to something, it didn't mean it hurt any less. Mycroft flushed a deep pink. Trying to explain with a room full of people would only make it worse. Marcus Hatch's golden eyes flickered briefly with...hurt..yes that was it, hurt. And then his expression changed. Resigned. Resigned to the inevitable rejection he must have experienced so many times. Because the world was so concerned with appearance. The world saw, but never observed.

Mycroft sank back onto his slightly damp pillows. Someone would be along shortly to change them. It really didn't matter. Mycroft knew damp pillows were the least of his worries. He knew what he'd done. How his face must have looked. That unfortunate expression his features fell into when the deductive reasoning kicked in. The coldness in his eyes and the cruel set of his mouth, one corner quirking into a sneer. That's what the Doctor had seen. And probably mistaken for disgust. He had hoped that once he was discharged and no longer Doctor Hatch's patient they might have gone for a drink, or dinner, or to see a Play. He wondered if Marcus liked the theatre? He'd never know now.

Marcus Hatch swiped out of the secure wing of the hospital. He was originally going to the gym, but now he had decided to change course and go to the Pub instead. Mercifully The Spleen and Scalpel was quiet. No one to bother him. He ordered a large Scotch and went and hid up a corner. How could he have thought, even for a moment, that Mycroft Holmes would fancy him? Okay so there had been that lame attempt at flirting, but that was probably down to the drugs. Never the less, he had hoped that once Mr Holmes was discharged from his care and no longer a patient that they could have gone for a drink, or dinner, or to see a Play. Did Mycroft like the theatre? He'd never know now. Marcus took a swig of his Scotch and scowled at the carpet.

He must have stared at the floor for ten minutes, until he became aware of a shadow opposite him. He looked up to see a short, stocky man, sadly cheerful, holding a large Scotch, a pint of bitter and a packet of pork scratchings.

"Doctor Hatch? Doctor John Watson. John." He set the drinks down on the table and held out his hand. "I think we should talk."

"John? Marcus! Talk about what?"

"Mycroft Holmes. There are some things you ought to know." John sat down. It was time to give Mycroft and Marcus what they both needed.


	103. The Story of Marcus

**Warning: Graphic Description of Injuries. **

Marcus Hatch felt better for having talked to John Watson. He could see how John would be a fantastic doctor. Not everyone that passed the exams had such compassion and understanding of their fellow human beings. And John had explained it all. In detail without revealing intimate or embarrassing information. John had not judged, nor had he appointed blame, or even expected an answer.

How John had known about the injuries, Marcus would never find out. But then John was doctor. He could look at them with a clinical detachment. And John was a soldier. He had been injured himself. He understood.

Marcus looked at himself in the full length mirror. How was Mycroft Holmes, whose slender perfection Marcus had seen firsthand, ever in a million years of Sundays going to want him. The scars on his face were bad enough, but they were nothing in comparison to the rest of him. He'd escaped with a few cuts because he had been wearing goggles and a face mask at the time, but his body armour had been ripped to pieces in the blast. So had he.

It had all happened so quickly. Driving along the dirt road, dust being puffed up into the air, the kiln heat baking them all. And then they took a left turn in to hell.

The world smelled how he'd imagined biblical fire and brimstone would smell, the air was choked with dust and chemicals which raked his lungs with every breath, even through the mask wrapped over his nose and mouth. He could smell his own sweat, and another musky, sweet odour. And he could taste blood, he'd bitten his tongue when his head had been snapped back abruptly. He remembered being numb, blown out of reality as he had been thrown from the back of the Jeep, knowing that when, or if he landed again, it would be in the arms of death. There was a brief moment when he could feel nothing, dying wasn't so bad. Over-rated almost. Then he'd smashed into the ground, and it felt like all his bones had turned to glass and splintered in an instant.

He lay in the sand, wondering if the trickle of moisture he could feel running down his back was sweat or blood. The smell was stronger now, changing, as the chemicals and sulphur mixed with petrol and the thick smell of burning rubber. The Jeep was on its side, bleeding oil into the sand. Marcus shook his head, trying to stop the ringing in his ears. His body armour felt tight, pushing down on his chest, squeezing the panic that was trying to swell out. He looked up once more, blinking grit and blood and dragged himself to as near upright as he was going to get. He didn't dare look down at his leg which was sparking sharp daggers of pain at every step, instead he moved with purpose because there were people still alive in the Jeep's burning carcass.

The door was jammed shut, twisted out of its normal shape and clamping up against the roof. He could feel the heat rolling around him as he tried to balance on the Jeep's side. If the fuel tank went, everyone inside, and probably him as well would get cooked alive. He wrenched at the door, his footing uncertain, feeling every muscle in his back stretch and tear like tissue paper as the door yielded and pulled back like the lid of sardine can. He reached inside and hauled up the driver by the straps of his body armour, dropping him on to the oily sand before going back in for the crumpled figure in the foot well of the passenger side. It took what seemed like a couple of centuries to drag them to the semi shelter of ruined building and on his second trip he heard the whistle and crack of bullets very close and felt something hot and sharp bite into his side. He'd been shot. But he still had to go back for Matthew.

He knew Matthew was dead. Probably killed instantly. He knew he should leave his body where it was. Only he couldn't. He couldn't leave that bright eyed boy to burn on a desert funeral pyre. Even if it meant dying himself.

He carried the lifeless body away from the vehicle, finally reaching the sanctuary of the crumbling walls. He risked a downward glance at his leg. Blood. Torn material. Something white and sharp. Crumbling like the walls. His leg bone. It was almost slow motion. As he watched his leg collapse under him, as if it had been held up only as long as it wasn't observed.

Matthew's eyes stared at him from the ruined face. His Matthew. His Matthew who had sworn he would look after. His Matthew who would now be going home in box. His Matthew who had just become another name to add to the War Memorial in the village where he grew up. His Matthew who had just become another MOD letter. Kept in drawer, until no one knew who he was or why he died.

Marcus reached out towards him, noticing how badly burnt his arm seemed to be. Strange. It didn't hurt. Nothing hurt. Except his heart. And the last conscious thing he did was to close Matthew's eyes.

He woke up three days later in the military hospital in Birmingham minus the lower half of his left leg and covered in bandages and dressings. And without Matthew.

Skin grafts, stitches, physiotherapy, an artificial leg had all helped to repair his body. Made it function again. Allowed him to live, or at least to go on existing. But a broken heart? Well that was incurable. Wasn't it?


	104. Date

Mycroft was relieved to be going home. Well, to be leaving the hospital. He wasn't going home. He was going straight to the office. He smiled as he looked at the garment bag hanging on the back of the door. He'd missed his suit. Pyjamas seemed to take away a person's authority. You knew where you were with pinstripes. His barber had made a discreet visit to the hospital earlier and had sorted out his butchered hair. It was still a lot shorter than he would have liked and Billy, the barber, had applied some kind of gel to it. Apparently it was necessary to cover up the stitches. And a gentleman never argued with his barber.

Mycroft unzipped the bag that Anthea, now fully recovered, had brought in earlier. And his face settled into a frown as he reached for his phone. There had obviously been some kind of mistake. He was fairly sure none of the clothes were his. Although upon closer inspection they did seem to be his size.

He was interrupted by John Watson arriving, holding a clipboard and dressed in a white coat.

"Good afternoon Mycroft. I've got your discharge papers." John sounded extremely cheerful.

"Oh. I thought Doctor Hatch had to issue those." He did a good job of keeping the disappointment out of his voice. He had not seen Doctor Hatch since the incident with the shower. He really wanted a chance to explain. Without an audience. And maybe ask the Doctor if he would like to meet for a drink at the Diogenes some time. By way of apology. Certainly not to ask him out. As in out on a date. That would be ridiculous.

"Marcus has got the day off. I'm the senior Doctor on duty. I can get someone else if you'd rather?"

"Not at all Doctor Watson."

"Shouldn't you be dressed if you want to go home?" John looked at Mycroft's pyjama trousers. Very nice, dark blue silk with MH embroidered on them.

"There appears to have been some sort of mistake. Anthea has brought me the wrong clothes." He indicated the outfit now laid out on the bed.

"They look okay to me." John was trying not to smile.

"Do I look like the kind of man who wears Calvin Klein boxer briefs, even in my currently weakened state?" A rather delicious image popped into John's head.

"Honestly? No. But it can't hurt just this once. And it's better than going home in your pyjamas."

"I suppose." Ten minutes later Mycroft was dressed. John smiled inwardly, everything was going according to plan.

Marcus Hatch had been enjoying a relaxing cup of double espresso at his favourite cafe when he had been interrupted by a tall young man with cheekbones you could cut steak with. The man seemed vaguely familiar.

"Marcus Hatch? I'm Sherlock Holmes." That was it. The brother. There were two of them.

"Mr Holmes. What can I do for you?"

"Actually it's what you can do for my brother."

"Oh." The talk with John Watson had cleared up some of the confusion surrounding Mr Holmes the Elder. John had explained about that thing he did. How he couldn't help it. Like breathing. How Mycroft could look at you and know everything. See everything. Even the things you thought you had hidden away. And John had explained about Mycroft's job, and how he had to make these impossible decisions, and how everyone thought he was cold and heartless and detached from the world. Whereas in fact, he was none of those things. He was a good man. A brilliant man. A man who understood the implications of every action and was prepared to face the consequences.

"I need you to come with me." The face was different, the eyes silver not blue, but the expression was the same. It was like having your soul x-rayed. "Please?"

John was trying not to look too pleased with himself as he walked down the corridor with Mycroft. A Mycroft that was attracting some none too subtle glances from various members of staff. It had actually been relatively easy. Sherlock had bunged Billy five hundred quid to give Mycroft a trendy haircut. Anthea had been more than willing to take a trip to some of the best designer shops in town in order to purchase the outfit her boss was now wearing. Albeit a little self consciously. But rather like his little brother, the elder Holmes boy was a bit of clothes horse, with bone structure most super models would kill for.

John waved Mycroft off in the black limo that had been waiting for him. The driver was under strict instructions to deliver Mr Holmes to the prearranged location for six O'clock. It was nice to be kidnapping Mycroft for a change. John was sure they would all pay for it later.

Marcus Hatch was slightly confused. Sherlock Holmes had taken him shopping. Well. Sherlock Holmes had taken him to a rather expensive shop, where a pair of socks cost a week's wages, and had sat on a chair like a Bond Villain whilst three, no four assistants had measured Marcus, done things with colour charts, commented on how nice his eyes were and proceeded to dress him up like some kind of cat walk model. Sherlock had handed over his credit card and paid the eye watering bill without blinking.

And now Marcus was sat on his own at a table set for two. The Bistro was nice. And worryingly empty. A large man of Italian extraction had smiled at him indulgently and brought him a glass of wine and lit the candle on the table, saying something about it being more romantic with candles.

Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway. At least Marcus thought it was Mycroft Holmes. He wasn't completely sure. Because nowhere in the remotest corners of his own private Mycroft Holmes fantasy , and there had been a few of those recently, had Mycroft ever looked quite so...

Hot. That was the word. Hot.

Marcus was sure he was grinning like his brain had just been scooped out and replaced with pasta. He didn't care. He didn't even care if that was going to be on the agenda later in the evening. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. And then he smiled.

John took an enormous bite out of his pepperoni and pineapple pizza. He was stretched out on the sofa feeling rather pleased with himself. Sherlock scowled at him from behind a bubbling pot of unspeakable things.

"I wouldn't get too complacent just yet John. You are forgetting that this is Mycroft we're talking about."

"It's going to be fine. They'll have a nice dinner. And a nice chat. And hopefully it will all work out."

"And then Mycroft will stomp across it all with his size elevens. Did this Doctor hatch wrong you in a previous life?"

"Shut up. "

"I've always admired your optimism John, but I can't see how it can possibly work."

"What? How someone with a genius IQ who pretends he doesn't need anyone or anything could possibly find an ex forces doctor with PTSD attractive? And the two of them can't get together and discover that actually they make each other better? And maybe, just maybe they both won't feel quite so alone in the world? Yeah. I can't see how that would ever work." John took another bite of pizza and smiled as Sherlock slinked down on the sofa next to him.


	105. For Nicholas and Matthew

Marcus was impressed. Well the house was impressive! Perhaps a little impersonal. And rather contradictory. There was a fridge full of Champagne. And another fridge that contained a single Weightwatchers ready meal and half a tomato. Everything was neat. Expensive. Carefully chosen to tell you nothing about the man who lived there.

The man who was currently pouring two glasses of what he suspected was very expensive Brandy. The meal had been very pleasant. Mycroft had ordered some kind of salad. Marcus had politely but firmly told the waiter to bring Mycroft some of Angelo's Special Chicken Pasta (_If we told you what_ _was in it we would have to kill you. It actually said that on the menu.)_ He advised Mycroft he needed to gain at least a stone and in Marcus's considered medical opinion he was far too thin for his own good. He'd expected some kind of protest. John had covered all the main points in his briefing. Mycroft had smiled and nodded at the waiter. It seemed, thought Marcus, Mr Mycroft Holmes was prepared to come quietly. And once that thought had popped into his head he blushed for a full ten minutes at the resulting images.

There had been a lot of resulting images . The latest was prompted by the sight of a pair of firm governmental buttocks in a pair of rather close fitting Armani jeans. Whoever had picked out the clothes for Mycroft, and Marcus suspected John Watson might have had something to do with it, they had bought him a shirt too short to tuck in. In his opinion a masterstroke. The shirt was a delicate pale pink which complimented Mycroft's colouring very nicely, and sat about an inch below his belt. Every time he moved Marcus was treated to a front row view of the waistband of Mycroft's boxer shorts. He tried not to stare.

Mycroft was nervous. Give him a country in revolt he was fine. Show him a nation on the eve of all out war. Not a problem. But put him on his own with an attractive man he wasn't paying for his company and he really didn't know what to do. He'd never really done any actual dating. And he was sure this was one. A date. He'd not lived the virginal existence Sherlock had by any means. But that had just been sex. A business arrangement. This was different. He poured the brandy. It was good brandy. From the cellars at home. He pulled his shirt self consciously downwards. Who honestly bought a shirt that was too short to tuck in? Well evidently his assistant did. Words would be had later.

It had been a very enjoyable evening. And part of Mycroft didn't want it to end. But the other part of him didn't really see where it could possibly go. He didn't see where the relationship could possibly go. He wasn't normal. There was something wrong with him and surely Marcus would realise that soon enough. The man was clever. Very clever. He would work it out and then he would leave. It was better for all concerned to stop this right now.

"Mycroft? Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes. No actually." Why was this so bloody difficult? "I have had a really lovely evening. I've really enjoyed it. You are clever and funny and handsome and everything and you really should be with someone who can appreciate that. And give you the attention and the... love that you deserve. And I'm afraid that's not me."

"Well I can honestly say I've never been let down quite so elegantly before. Usually it's a slanging match outside a kebab house at four in the morning." The smile didn't go all the way to the golden eyes. Marcus made to get up.

"Please. Allow me to explain a little further. You deserve a proper explanation. I'm sure John Watson gave you what he thought were the salient facts about me. I am also certain that John was gracious enough to leave out a few details. In my entire life, I have only ever loved one person. His name was Nicholas. He died when I was sixteen. If he hadn't died, I think...I know my life would have been very different. I have never sought another relationship because I know that anyone I was with would only be a poor substitute for Nicholas. And that hardly seems fair. To you. I dare say that we could have fun together. That John thinks it's what we both need. Perhaps even what we both want? I think he may well be right. I do want you. I do need you. But I will never love you." Mycroft took a large gulp of brandy.

Marcus nodded sadly. Chewing over Mycroft's little speech in his head. It seemed all the cards were going down on the table.

"Well I suppose two out of three isn't bad." Marcus pulled the photo out of his wallet and laid it down on the coffee table. "His name was Matthew."


	106. The Morning After

Sherlock was prowling up and down Baker Street like a condemned man in his cell. His responses to John's questions had been reduced to a series of grunts. John shook his head, he could actually understand the grunts, which was quite disturbing. And he knew why Sherlock was currently wandering around the flat hugging a rather affronted looking Tiger like the world's tallest three year old.

Sherlock was worried about Mycroft.

Although never in a hundred years of torture and interrogation would he ever admit that. But Sherlock had commenced his pacing around the six O'clock mark, when Mycroft's "Date" was due to start. It was now one thirty in the morning and John was getting just a little bit narked with his flatmate. And he couldn't help but wonder how things were going either.

At three A.M. John had finally extracted the tiger from Sherlock's grasp. Sherrinford looked gratefully at John, even though he had to be shaken quite roughly to restore his squashed stuffing. John placed him out of harm's way, next to The Skull and Frank on the mantle. Sherlock ceased his pacing and went and stared out of the window. The streets were still dark, quiet, no one around. Almost peaceful. And yet that darkness covered a multitude of sins.

John stood next to Sherlock at the window. He knew he wasn't seeing quiet what Sherlock was seeing. John could see the shadows. He could see the empty streets. But he couldn't always see what they meant.

"He will be all right you know? He's Mycroft Holmes."

"Yes John. That's what scares me." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and kissed the top of his head. It was a long way till morning.

Neither Mycroft, nor Marcus were aware of the restless vigil being kept on their behalf. They were both asleep. In the stiff necked morning, neither man would be able to say exactly how it happened. How they went from drinking brandy and talking on opposite sides of the room, to them both sitting on the same rather squashy sofa. And then how they came to be asleep. Marcus using Mycroft's ribs as a pillow. Not a very comfortable pillow, but somehow comforting. How Mycroft was slouched down into the sofa's soggy depths, with one long arm resting protectively around his Doctor's shoulders.

It would be a little awkward. A little embarrassing. Marcus's leg would be so stiff and sore he couldn't move, what was left of the shattered joint seized up. Mycroft would have a crick in his neck from the chair arm, he was getting far too old to sleep anywhere but his bed. And they would laugh about their decrepitude and just before Mycroft's driver, his new driver, took Marcus home, well they wouldn't kiss. And a hug on the doorstep was really not Mycroft's style. But there was, for the briefest of moments, the slightest touching of hands and a smile. In that moment, it was enough.


	107. Holiday

The tall man's hair was sparking flame red and copper in the bright sunshine. He had his back to them and they could see the muscles flexing in his broad tanned shoulders as he moved. He was nearly waist deep in the bright blue water, his shorts just visible. The arms of an unseen individual snaked around his neck, pulling him forward. He lost his footing, his shriek turned into a gurgle as he disappeared under the water. Only to emerge seconds later, triumphantly holding a pair of patterned swimming shorts with a huge grin on his face.

"Give them back! How did you even do that?" Another head just above the water was asking.

"Talent and practice." The shorts were thrown at the other man who gratefully and somewhat awkwardly pulled them back on.

"Are you going to help me out of here?"

"I was thinking about taking your shorts off again."

"Fun for you is it? You need to put some more sun block on; I can smell ...I don't know, like ginger biscuits, burning." The tall man threw his head back and laughed. "And I could murder for a beer."

"Me too." The taller man waded the six or so feet through the waves, putting an arm gently, but firmly around the other man's shoulders. Together they hopped/limped out of the sea. It only became apparent to the observers once the pair reached dry land that the shorter man was missing the lower half of his left leg. The taller lowered him into a waiting beach chair, before reaching for his towel.

"Sit down. I need to do your shoulders." The taller man sat obediently on the sand between the other's knees whilst the sun cream was applied. There was the click and hiss of two bottles of beer being opened, and a satisfied gulping from both men.

"I think I'm going to be sick John."

"Why? I think it's quite sweet. And very sensible. Your brother really shouldn't spend too much time in the sun, not with that fair skin of his."

"Mycroft's drinking beer!" It was said with the same tone as Sherlock might have said: _Mycroft's_ _eating raw sewage. _

"I think Marcus is an excellent influence on him. Come on. Hey you guys!" John shouted. He saw Marcus turn and wave up at them, then say something to Mycroft. Mycroft stood, brushing the sand from his shorts and pulling on a white linen shirt, before walking up the steps to the veranda where John and Sherlock looked down.

Poor Sherlock, thought John as he recalled the conversation in Baker Street the previous afternoon.

"A Holiday?"

"Yes. You know. Like not work."

"My brother has gone on holiday? I knew nothing good would come of you and your interfering."

"Shut Up! Mycroft has gone on holiday with Marcus. Get over it."

"That explosion must have given him brain damage."

"I think it might have made him re-evaluate a few things."

"Where has he gone?"

"You mean you don't know?" John was going to enjoy this for as long as it might last.

"How could I possibly know? Right. Okay. It won't be somewhere hot because he hates the sun. It won't be near the sea because he hates beaches. It won't be a city break because he doesn't like people. There are one hundred and thirty two countries that won't let him in unless it's a state visit, and we would have heard about that by now. It unlikely to be anywhere mountainous because that would mean exercise, that and his boy toy has only got one leg. Oh I know. One of the vineyards in the South of France. I think one of his assistants has a father in the wine business."

"Jonathan."

"Yes. Short. Excessively nice suits. Lawyer. Well, I say Lawyer."

"They've gone to Greece, they've been there a week."

"Greece? Mycroft? Ridiculous!"

"Some tiny island that one of the Onassis people owns?"

"And how do you know this John? Staff room gossip?"

"This arrived this morning genius!" John waved an envelope at Sherlock. Mail was boring. Obviously. The envelope contained two tickets and various instructions in Mycroft's elegant script. "We're going on holiday!"


	108. I Have Never

John was relieved to be out of his jeans and into some shorts. The heat was rather oppressive. Sherlock was still dressed in his suit, shirt buttoned up, refusing to change. He must have been baking, even under the shade of the awning that covered the table they were all currently sat around. Marcus had joined them once he'd sorted his leg out. And was now sat next to Mycroft, insisting that he ate another helping of fish.

John smiled to himself. Getting the Holmes boys to eat was a full time occupation in itself. Although Marcus did seem to have done a good job with Mycroft. John couldn't ever remember him looking so well. He was tanned, relaxed, smiling, maybe even happy? By comparison Sherlock was currently pale, uptight, scowling and sulky.

"Mycroft. You need to eat some more of this." Marcus spooned more food onto a plate, it sounded like an order. John wondered how many people got away with ordering Mycroft around.

"I suppose he has to keep his strength up." Was Sherlock's acid comment. Mycroft looked at his brother for a moment. Fixing him with the familiar icy stare, before smiling and wiggling his eyebrows.

"I don't think I've ever told John about the time you refused to wear anything but Mummy's bra for a week." John spat his beer out, and spluttered.

"You wouldn't dare? Or I'll tell Marcus about the time I caught you doing _things _in the pantry."

"Oh was that with the jam roly poly?" Marcus asked, taking another swig of his beer.

"Yes. Or maybe he's thinking of the time with the chocolate fudge cake." Mycroft took a large bite of potato. John decided that maybe he would skip dessert.

"You know about that? He actually told you? You told him?" Sherlock was sweating. The plate of food in front of him untouched.

"Yes. We were playing a game of I have never. It came up during that!" Marcus answered.

"Are you going to eat that Sherlock?" Mycroft asked pointedly, reaching for more potatoes. A single drop of sweat fell from the end of Sherlock's nose in to his lunch.

By the time John finally persuaded Sherlock to change into some shorts before he passed out, the suit was soaked though with sweat.

"I don't see what the problem is? You're perfectly happy to walk around in nothing but a sheet at home, or at Buckingham Palace, and yet when its 100 degrees in the shade you won't even take your jacket off. "

Sherlock stood self consciously in a pair of silver grey shorts that John had insisted on getting him the previous day and muttered something before stalking out of the villa and down on to the beach.

John supposed he was expecting it. He'd had a nonstop litany of reasons why they shouldn't go on holiday to Mycroft's Island, as Sherlock had been referring to it. A litany that had got progressively more ridiculous as the day went on. It had started out as a simple. "I don't want to go." Moved on through "I don't like the sun." "I don't like Ice Cream." "I don't like swimming" "It will be boring." "They won't let me take my skull." And had finally finished up on "Mycroft's planning to take over the world and he wants us involved." John suspected that was the final act of a desperate man. Although John was quite sure he had seen a large white fluffy cat earlier on. John had countered every objection with a simple "Well I'm going. You can stay here." Sherlock had only relented once he realised John was serious. The moment when he saw Frank being placed carefully into John's carry-on bag.

John knew there was a real reason. A reason hiding behind all the childish objections. He just wasn't quite sure what.

It was only when he saw Sherlock kneeling in the sand, putting the finishing touches to a sandcastle that Mycroft had built, that he understood. It was the way Sherlock looked up anxiously at Mycroft every few seconds, checking he was doing it right. Sherlock looked very small and very young in that moment. And Mycroft looked every bit the big brother. Sherlock had got his beloved big brother back, the big brother he must have thought was dead, buried in a churchyard with another sixteen year old boy. Cast into the darkness. And now suddenly pulled in to the light. Resurrected.

And Sherlock must be scared. Scared of losing him again. Scared of getting too close in case it hurt as much as the last time. John was broken out of his thoughts by an indignant roar from Sherlock.

"Oh get off of me!" Sherlock was being carried bodily into the sea by Mycroft. "Marcus! Did you know that up until the age of ten he wanted to be a ballet dancer? He used to wander around the house wearing Mummy's tights!" Sherlock splashed and spluttered in the water.

"For someone who wanted to be a pirate you don't seem to like the ocean much." Mycroft's smile reminded John of a shark preparing for lunch.

Sherlock pushed his hair from his eyes and scowled at his brother.

"Give them back!"

Mycroft held up Sherlock's shorts, and sloshed over to hand them back. John could see Sherlock plotting terrible revenge, and smiling whilst he did it. Everything was going to be fine.


	109. Castles in the Sand

John was rather glad Sherlock had chosen to sleep/ stay awake in the room adjoining his. Ever the diplomat Mycroft had given them separate rooms with an interconnecting door. However John had not relished the idea of sleeping in proximity to a hot sweaty consulting detective even with the air conditioning switched on.

The air was cooler when he woke up. It was just after three in the morning. The house still and quiet. John could hear the gentle whoosh of the waves pushing onto the beach. The timeless, relentless sound of the world turning. He looked out of the window, the moon floating on the black sky. Huge and ghostly. Stars flickering in the heavens. And down on the beach, visible from John's window, a familiar, tall figure. Almost as ghost like and extraordinary as the night sky.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?" John pulled his dressing gown around him. The night air was chilly.

"They're not sleeping together you know?"

"Sorry?"

"Mycroft and Marcus. They're not sleeping together."

"Well, they haven't been going out that long."

"They should be sleeping together."

"How exactly do you know they're not? Maybe they just both want some actual sleep?" John took a step back as a wave tickled his foot.

"No. It's something else."

"Give them some time Sherlock. They both seem happy. Don't try and deduce this. Just let it happen. However it happens."

A wave sloshed around Sherlock's ankles.

"Mycroft is still wearing Nicholas's ring. And those dog tags Marcus wears aren't his. They belong to someone called Matthew Wallace. If they were sleeping together they would take them off. Mycroft always used to take his ring off whenever he used to hire someone to keep him company. " Sherlock stubbed his toe into the rapidly dissolving remains of the days sandcastle.

"He used to hire people? As in rent boys?"

"Not exactly. Nothing quite so sordid. He'd get a very high class escort agency to send him someone every now and again. He'd take them to dinner. Or the theatre. I'm assuming he slept with some of them, but not all. He doesn't think I know."

"I'm sure he does Sherlock."

"It all seems rather futile John. Relationships. They always end eventually. One way or another."

"Yes." John took Sherlock's hand, pulling him a little closer. "We build castles in the sand, knowing that the sea is going to come along and wash them away. But that isn't a good enough reason not to build them in the first place." John looked up at the stars. And then he kissed Sherlock, not caring if the waves carried them both off, as long as they were together.


	110. A Bit of Time

Mycroft was sat at the table on the veranda; John presumed he was taking care of some sort of official business. His laptop was open in front of him and there was a pile of papers to the left. To the right was what appeared to be a chocolate milkshake and a plate of cookies. John perched at the end of the table as far away from Mycroft as he could get. Not because he wanted to avoid him, but because he didn't want to observe anything he shouldn't.

"You don't mind do you?" John flipped his Laptop open.

"Not at all John. Are you blogging about the holiday?"

"No, I'm just sending an email to Harry. Oh and to Mrs Hudson."

"Mrs Hudson is in..." Mycroft checked the time on his laptop "...Venice right now, I think."

John smiled.

"You sent Mrs Hudson on Holiday?"

"On a cruise actually. It was the very least I could do for all the delicious cakes she sent me whilst I was recuperating." Mycroft took a cookie and then slid the plate down to John. "Do try one. They're Mrs Papalazarou's special recipe."

"I do hope you've had breakfast Mycroft!" A voice from the doorway made them both look up. Marcus leant against the frame, wearing a dressing gown that was a little too large for him. John suspected it might have been Mycroft's. Mycroft looked like a naughty boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Well not exactly."

"I suppose I should be grateful that you've eaten something at least!" Marcus leaned heavily on Mycroft's shoulders as he walked behind his chair. The gesture was not exactly intimate, but John noticed how Mycroft's face reddened a little under his tan. John also noticed how Marcus's hand lingered perhaps half a second longer than was appropriate, gently stroking the fabric of Mycroft's shirt. They might not be sleeping together but they were certainly still thinking about it.

"I'm going for a swim. Are you coming or are you too busy running the world?"

"Just let me get my bathing trunks." Mycroft shut the laptop. "John. I would be grateful if you could keep my brother away from my computer." He stood, unfolding his long legs and was about to head in the direction of his room, and swimming trunks when he paused.

"Wait for me? Don't go without me." And Mycroft rushed off. All of his insecurities in one sentence John thought to himself!

John wasn't quite sure what to say. He'd had Sherlock's complete analysis of Marcus and Mycroft the previous night.

"So how's it going?" Brilliant John. Just brilliant.

"Good. Better than good."

"Sherlock's a bit worried."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I think he wants to have the: if you hurt him I'll kill you conversation. Mycroft kind of did that to me."

"What did he do?"

"He kidnapped me and offered me money to spy on Sherlock."

"That's about right." Marcus paused and took a deep breath. "He's so clever it scares me."

"Really? Mycroft scares you?"

"Don't laugh."

"I'm not. I live with Sherlock remember? Although just between you and me Mycroft's the smartest."

"That is not comforting. Do you ever get over feeling like the village idiot?"

"Sherlock doesn't understand the Solar system. He can't make tea. He doesn't know how to operate the washing machine. And don't even get me started on his sandwich making skills. Mycroft's the same. Although he does know how to use the washing machine. And his tea's not bad either. Actually, do you want to swap?" John grinned and took a bite of cookie, they were amazing.

"No, I think I'll stick the big fella."

"Yeah smart move I think. You just need to give it time."

"Thanks John."

Mycroft appeared on the veranda, dressed in Union Flag swimming shorts.

"Shall we go? Are you joining us John?"

"No. I'm going to go wake boy wonder up! Have a nice swim." John left the two of them making their way down to the beach. They'd work it out. They just needed a bit of time. That was all you ever needed. And perhaps a second chance to make things right.


	111. Naked Breakfast

It had taken John nearly half an hour to persuade Sherlock to get out of bed.

"There's absolutely no reason to get up. Getting up is boring."

"You need to eat breakfast."

"No I don't." Sherlock pulled the sheet over his head.

"Everyone else is going to have breakfast. You don't have to eat anything, you can just have coffee."

"Good idea John. Mycroft seems to be eating enough for everyone at the moment."

"Don't start. You're only upset because suddenly your brother's as good looking as you are."

"What?" Sherlock sat up and wrenched the sheet off. Standing in front of John, naked and indignant.

"That got you out of bed didn't it?" John grinned dangerously at Sherlock. "Now get dressed."

"No. I think I shall go to breakfast like this." Sherlock was still clinging desperately to the last fraying strands of victory. John took a deep breath.

"Okay. We are on holiday. Why not?" John had finished changing into his swimming shorts, which had little sharks wearing sunglasses on them. "Just make sure you put some sun block on your cheeky bits." He made to leave the room.

"You don't mean it John."

"Yeah I do. A sun burnt Willy is no joke!"

"There is no way you would let me go to breakfast naked." Sherlock folded his arms smugly across his chest.

"Try me!" John was half way up the corridor, leaving Sherlock with the dawning realisation that he'd just been called out. Well that was fine. Naked breakfast it was then!

Sherlock's confidence had lasted approximately forty five seconds. Mycroft had completely ignored him. John had rolled his eyes and Marcus had looked him up and down before turning to Mycroft and saying: "So it isn't a family trait then?"

Mycroft had reached for more toast. And then the butter. And then the marmalade. And said nothing. He simply held up a pair of shorts. Black shorts with Jolly Rogers printed all over them. Sherlock snatched the shorts from his brother and scowled.

He continued to scowl, mainly at Mycroft, for five minutes, until Mrs Papalazarou, the housekeeper, place a plate down in front of him. A plate of egg and soldiers. John noted that the eggs had little pirate hats to keep them warm.

"Thank you." Sherlock looked up into the timeless face. Somehow the elderly Greek lady reminded John of Mrs Hudson. One of those ladies that might sit quietly knitting but you always had to bear in mind she had a bag full of knitting needles.

"You like egg and soldiers?" This was new information for John.

"Pirates and Planks actually." Mycroft squeezed brown sauce onto his eggs and bacon. "It was the only way to get him to eat as a child. Piratical lobotomy every breakfast! I used to spend hours drawing moustaches and eye patches on to eggs. At one point Nick suggested making it in to a career."

Sherlock had silently moved on to his second egg. He was smiling, a look of extreme concentration on his face as he removed the top. Then he looked up. Looked straight at his brother. John waited for the inevitable torrent of abuse he was sure Sherlock was about to pour forth. Mycroft was a sitting target, stuffing himself with breakfast and talking about his dead boyfriend.

"So what are we doing today then Mikey?" And Sherlock continued to remove his egg pirate's "brains" with a piece of toast.

"Whatever you like Sherlock." Mycroft smiled indulgently at his little brother. And John couldn't help but notice that for a split second both brother's had exactly the same expression on their faces.


	112. Inappropriate Reactions

Marcus was prepared to swear to anyone who would listen that it had been an accident. Mycroft had been so embarrassed he couldn't speak. Sherlock thought that anything that shut Mycroft up for over an hour couldn't be all bad. And John had just enjoyed the whole thing.

Marcus had slipped getting out of the water onto the pontoon. It was a lot more difficult when you were down to the tune of half a leg, especially when the pontoon was slippery with consulting detective. Mycroft had of course moved like lightning to catch him. And somehow Marcus had found himself on top of Mycroft with his hands in a rather inappropriate place on the British Government's chest. He wasn't quite sure how long he was in that position for. Long enough it seemed.

After the first date, if it had been a date, Marcus had made no secret of the fact he thought Mycroft was too thin. Any Man who was nearly six foot four should not weigh less than eleven stone. And with some gentle persuasion, and help from Anthea and Mrs. Hudson and Angelo, Marcus had managed to get Mycroft to eat proper meals at regular intervals and spend an appropriate amount of time in the gym. With very good results. Good results that Marcus was very aware of as he lay on top of them.

Mycroft pushed him off, probably a little more roughly than he had meant to, stammering an apology and sliding quickly into the water. He was blushing under his tan. Mycroft had returned to the shore and the villa without another word.

And then, nearly two hours after the incident. Mycroft had apologised for his inappropriate behaviour. For a second Marcus had thought Mycroft was joking. Then he realised he meant it.

"Mycroft its fine. It's a natural reaction."

"Not for me it isn't!"

"It just means everything is working how it should. Nothing to be worried about. Or ashamed of. Okay?" Marcus stroked the side of Mycroft's face.

"Please don't do that."

"Sorry. Don't you like it?"

"No it's not that. It's..." Mycroft looked downwards and shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh. You do like it!" Mycroft looked as though he was in some private version of hell. A cool breeze drifted in through the open window of Marcus's room. Marcus placed his hand more firmly on Mycroft's jaw and then let his fingers run softly down the long neck. Mycroft gave a little murmur of uncertainty and then allowed Marcus to move his hands lower and push the linen trousers to the floor.

"No underwear? How very daring Mr Holmes!" Marcus put his arms around Mycroft's shoulders. Leaning in close to him. "What do you want Mycroft? You just have to ask. Anything you want."

"Do you think I could... would it be all right if...I just want to hold you."

"Okay. It's fine." Marcus could feel Mycroft shivering under his fingers. He sensed it was not altogether to do with the cold.

John sat enjoying the last of the day's warmth and a glass of Pimms on the terrace, although it was getting a little chilly and he was considering going and fetching his jumper. Beside him Sherlock was restless.

"Sherlock. Stop trying to listen. It's not nice."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I'm sure you do. And to be honest it's a little bit perverted." Silver eyes stared back at him with innocent blankness.

"I was just curious."

"I know."

"And something else."

"What else?"

"I think I'm angry."

"At Mycroft?"

"No. At everyone else. At my parents. At everyone who should have been looking after him and didn't. At myself. I have been such a terrible brother. I think John, that right now you may well be looking at the biggest idiot on the planet."

"I think you're being a little hard on yourself."

"No. I'm a genius. And so is Mycroft. And it's taken two people of average intelligence to fix us."

"I can hear that subtext again Sherlock."

"Sorry." Sherlock moved closer to John, nuzzling into his side.

"Idiot!" Everywhere was quiet. Still. John could feel the warm glow emanating from Sherlock's thin frame. John didn't need the jumper. Not right now.


	113. In the Eye of the Beholder

John Watson had woken up at 6.30am with his arms full of consulting detective. The room was light. Outside the day had already got started and was promising to be hot and sunny. Inside it was warm and tranquil, the light curtains fluttering in the early morning breeze. John ran his hand down Sherlock's spine. The bony shoulders weren't quite tanned, but showed some signs of turning pink and a few stray freckles had put in an appearance, coaxed out of hiding by the sun.

John moved slightly. He didn't want to get up just then. He wanted to stay there with his arms protectively around Sherlock. John's own tan was coming along nicely. Except for his shoulder, of course. The skin never tanned. It stayed the same waxy yellow and dead white, the twisted flesh underlined by the gently golden skin surrounding it.

John had always been self conscious about it. Well, since he'd taken that first look in the mirror when they'd finally let him out of bed. And the face staring back at him had been a stranger's. A man with haunted, purple bruised eyes. A man that wasn't him. A man that somehow wasn't there? John had spent half an hour staring at the reflection. Looking at the raw edges of the wound and thinking that no one would ever want to touch him again.

Sherlock's elegant fingers were curled over John's shoulder, his palm pressed gently against the rough edges of scar tissue. Sherlock didn't see an ugly scar. Terms like Ugly and Beautiful had no real meaning to a man who considered the body to be nothing more than a means of taking his brain to crime scenes. What Sherlock saw was the angle of entry, how John must have been crouched down when he was shot. How he was crouched over someone. Whilst the bullets were flying John was saving lives. In every line and twist Sherlock could read duty, sacrifice, courage.

Sherlock moved in his sleep, closer to John.

On the other side of the villa, Mycroft Holmes was sitting at the foot of his bed studying every inch of the man he had woken up next to. And thanking whatever God's might be listening at that time of the day for Marcus not dying.

Unlike his brother, Mycroft did use labels like Ugly and Beautiful. After all, Mycroft had a far better appreciation of the rules than Sherlock. Undoubtedly the rest of the world would think Marcus was ugly, but of course the rest of the world was made up of idiotic cretins who Mycroft could destroy with a single flick of his brain. The scarring was extensive. In some places it looked as though the skin had been flayed from the bones and then half-heartedly reattached. In some places the skin was pale, puckered and shiny where the intensity of heat had melted flesh to bone. And in some places it was undamaged. Ironic patches of perfection in amongst the wreckage. When Mycroft had first seen it, that day in the Hospital, he had known what every mark had meant more certainly than reading Marcus's medical records. (Which of course later on he had done.) The simple fact that in order to get so many different wounds you would have to have been exposed to danger repeatedly. You would have had to have gone back in to the danger. That was the measure of the man.

And of course his eyes. They truly were beautiful. Especially when they looked at Mycroft to the exclusion of the rest of the world. Eyes that were now half open. Mycroft blushed, caught in the act of staring.

"And what are you looking at Mr Holmes?" The voice was sleepy, gritty.

"Just admiring the view Doctor Hatch."

"Come here handsome." Marcus held out his arms, thanking whatever God's might be awake at that time of day for Mycroft not dying.

John was dozing when Sherlock opened his eyes. Not quite awake. Sherlock took his chance and pressed his lips to the mess of John's shoulder. He sensed John didn't like him touching it when he was awake. And it might also be one of the things on the "Not Good" list. John smiled and wriggled closer. Of course there was the chance Sherlock was wrong. Insufficient data. He would have to gather more evidence. He kissed him again.


	114. Normal Service is Resumed

There is always an awkward moment when everyone appears at breakfast and automatically everyone assumes everyone else has been doing things in the night. Whether there is any evidence or not. Whether, say, someone might notice the scratches on Sherlock's back which were not there when he went to bed. Or whether someone might notice that someone else is sitting down far more carefully than is normal. Or even if someone might notice that Mycroft looks like a terminally ill man who's just been told he's cured.

None of the evidence is conclusive. Or even that noticeable. And no one really cares any way. Two weeks ago it might have been a way of scoring points. Now it's just another beat of the heart of the matter.

Mycroft had three pieces of Chocolate cake for breakfast. Sherlock said nothing. Sherlock more or less sat on top of John for the duration of the meal. Mycroft said nothing. Marcus and John gave each other several significant looks. They didn't need to say anything.

Mycroft couldn't do his trousers up. When this golden opportunity presented itself, Sherlock simply said "Mycroft, I think you'll find they are mine." And Mycroft had laughed and Sherlock had fetched the correct trousers for his brother.

The lack of arguments was refreshing. For a few hours. Then it started to get a bit weird. John was getting rather freaked out by it. He was reminded of that film where all the wives got turned into robots. He decided to go for a walk. Marcus asked if he could join him. And the two of them strolled out into the sunshine leaving the Brothers Holmes playing chess.

"It's not that I mind them getting on." John explained as they walked. "It's just that, well, they're not really Sherlock and Mycroft if they're not arguing. And you can imagine the kind of arguments they have?"

"Worth watching?"

"You could sell tickets mate!"

"So who wins?" Marcus sat down on a rock to adjust the strap on his leg. John could see what he was getting at: is my boyfriend better than yours? It was quite sweet really. And of course, John, being the last honest man left standing replied honestly.

"Well Sherlock usually thinks he's won. But Sherlock usually carries on arguing for at least ten minutes once Mycroft has stopped. I think it's Mycroft's way of giving him rope? And of course once you are arguing with yourself you can't win. Mycroft knows that. That's why he runs the world, and well, Sherlock isn't allowed to go to Tesco's without surveillance."

Marcus stood and smiled.

"Mycroft told me that he thinks sometimes Sherlock hates him. What do you think?"

"I think there's more than one way to say I love you."

They returned to the villa an hour later to be greeted by the sounds of shouting. Chess pieces were scattered all over the terrace. The remains of Mycroft's sodden shirt dropped carelessly on the floor, a few spots of blood on the ground beside it. Both John and Marcus tensed, thinking the worst.

"You still lost. Even though you cheated. And what saddens me most is how very bad at it you are!" Mycroft was sporting a cut to his cheek, which John suspected had been caused by flying chessmen.

"John, thank God! Get this fat git off of me." Sherlock was pinned to the floor by his big brother. Both men were dripping wet. Mycroft look positively murderous.

Marcus took a sideways glance at John, just to see if he would go to Sherlock's aid. John sighed happily, glad things were getting back to normal.

"Brotherly Love. Isn't it sweet? Can I offer you drink Doctor Hatch?"

"Why that would be wonderful, Doctor Watson." They left Sherlock and Mycroft hurling abuse at each other in French.


	115. Teardrop in the Ocean

Marcus Hatch was a little confused. These days it didn't seem to take much to confuse him. He sat on the terrace looking out over the sea and wondering how many people had done the same thing. And also how much Matthew would have enjoyed it. How much fun they would have had. Matthew would have been like a kid in a sweet shop, he would have dragged Marcus to every ruined temple and every market and every village within sixty miles. He would have chatted to the locals in broken Greek, somehow making them laugh, making them understand him. And everyone would have fallen in love with him. They always did. It was a gift. With Matthew, he gave you his soul in every conversation and every gesture. Matthew was special. And completely unaware of it.

Marcus couldn't help but compare Mycroft and Matthew. Mycroft was so serious. Even when he was building a sandcastle, the thing had ended up looking like a perfect replica of Windsor Castle. There were a few brief moments when he relaxed. When he was almost human? Normal? Ordinary? But most of the time he remained fastidious and precise. Marcus suspected he was always in control of every situation. Mycroft never held hands in public and rarely in private, or kissed him, or showed any real physical signs of affection. Other than that one time, when he'd spent hours apologising for his inappropriate behaviour afterwards. And he'd already told Marcus he was never going to love him. Perhaps it was a waste of time?

Mycroft watched his brother sleeping on the sand. Of course John Watson was sleeping next to him. And of course Sherlock had been slowly creeping towards John in his sleep. For such a small man, John did seem to have quite the gravitational field where Sherlock was concerned. Currently Sherlock was draped across John, head on his chest and long elegant limbs wrapped at impossible angles. Mycroft moved the sunshade a little in order to spare John the indignity of waking up later looking like the Turin Shroud.

Mycroft stood waist deep in the sea. He knew Marcus was up on the terrace, looking out in to the distance, thinking. And he knew Marcus was wondering where it was all going. Where they were going. On Monday, the casual clothes and patterned swimming shorts would be replaced by the three piece suits, and Mycroft would resume his minor position of running the world.

Mycroft really wished he had the courage to lay down on the sand with Marcus, his arms around him, with the whole world watching. To hold on to him and not worry about the consequences.

And he wished that at the back of his head he could stop comparing Marcus to Nick, because that wasn't fair. And he tried not to. He really did. But he knew when Marcus looked at him; the golden eyes were seeing someone else. Someone better.

And he wished that he hadn't been born with a brain like a super-computer which saw everything in minute detail. Sometimes so much detail that it scared him. He knew Marcus would leave him. There was something wrong with him, so how could he expect Marcus to stay?

He knew he was crying. And he knew it was futile to do so. What were a few more salty drops of water when you were stood in an ocean of it?

He waded back to the beach and wiped his eyes roughly with a towel and then turned his attention back to John and Sherlock. They really were perfect together. John made Sherlock human and Sherlock made John whole. Sherlock was smiling in his sleep. Just like he did when he was a baby, in the nursery. Mycroft remembered the conversation with Nanny quite clearly.

"_Nanny. Is Sherlock like me?"_

"_Yes Darling, he's your brother."_

"_But will he be like me?" Seven year old Mycroft looked at the small, smiling child with his mop of black curls. _

"_Yes, he'll be just like you." Nanny had clearly misunderstood the question. But her answer made Mycroft afraid_. _And there and then he made up his mind that he could never let that happen to his little brother. _

Marcus saw him as he walked down the steps. Something was wrong. The set of Mycroft's shoulders was different. John had warned him about it. The way Mycroft and Sherlock could tell what you were thinking all the time. The way they answered questions you hadn't even asked yet. Surely John was exaggerating. And then Marcus found himself looking into blue eyes that were momentarily sad before they went dead. And Marcus knew, Mycroft must have heard every last thing he had been thinking.


	116. Trying Not to Start a War

Sherlock watched his brother's serious face, illuminated by the screen of his laptop. Mycroft was on a four way internet conference call. Something was happening. Something important. Something which could have earth shattering consequences if it went wrong. Mycroft was pulling up graphs and schematic drawings and detailed troop movements whilst holding a simultaneous conversation in Japanese, English, French and Russian. And Sherlock knew he wasn't even really trying. And Sherlock knew it was going to be one of those times when Mycroft would have to make a decision because everyone else in the world was too scared to. When no one wanted the responsibility, they sent for the man who would never flinch from it.

Sherlock found Marcus sat down on the beach watching the ocean breathing in and out.

"He doesn't mean it you know?" Sherlock wasn't expecting Marcus to shriek quite so loudly.

"Bloody hell! Have you got a stealth mode or something? Do you get off on sneaking up on people like that? I nearly had a bloody heart attack!" That was almost word for word what John usually said.

"Oh. Sorry?" That usually calmed John down.

"Fine. Who doesn't mean it?"

"Oh, yes. Mycroft. What he said earlier. About perhaps not going any further with the relationship? He didn't meant that."

"He sounded pretty convincing to me." Marcus threw a pebble into the water where it was swallowed by the sea, ready to be taken on a journey to another land, or just to the bottom.

"Well he would do. He's good at that." Sherlock cast his mind back to the conversation that he had woken to earlier. It wasn't an argument. Mycroft never did anything as vulgar as arguing with ordinary people.

"_I think it best if we didn't continue this relationship Marcus."_

"_Why? Mycroft what's wrong?" Marcus Hatch's battered face was a picture of confusion. _

"_I think we both know that this is just settling for second best. And I'm sorry but I am unable to do that. I know that when you look at me you wish I was someone else. I know because I wish you were someone else. And that hardly seems fair. I thought perhaps we could overcome this, but I don't think we shall. I want you to be happy and I can't make you happy. I want you to be safe and I can't guarantee that." And then there had been a whole lot of shouting._

And there was so much more that wasn't said. So much more that Mycroft would never say.

"He doesn't think he deserves to be happy. Kind of survivor's guilt?"

"Really." Marcus hurled another pebble, this time with more venom. "Well he'd know all about that, sat safely in an office in Whitehall while other people go out and get shot at. And blown up. And killed." He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his lips. After all he'd only met Mycroft because the guy had got blown up.

"Yes. I'm sure he thinks that too." Sherlock paused and watched a few stars twinkling in the night sky. "And I'm sure he is very aware of the possibility that it was one of his orders that resulted in your Matthew being killed. And so he hardly feels worthy to take his place, even if it is only a temporary measure."

"What?" The puzzled expression told Sherlock that Marcus had no idea what his brother actually did. Doctor Hatch was obviously under the impression that Mycroft was a mundane pen pusher. Of course Mycroft would never have disclosed any information that might endanger Marcus in some way and which might make him a target for abduction or attack.

"Follow me?"

Mycroft was still sat at the table in the dining room. Angry voices were filtering over the speaker phone. Obviously all hell was going to break loose soon.

"I strongly suggest that you reconsider your position Sir." The voice was icily polite. "Otherwise you will give me no alternative but to send the Pacific Fleet in. The Warheads are at my disposal. I would rather we avoided that, but don't for one moment think I won't give the order."

"Mr. Holmes?" A new voice. Rough. American. New York? "I have the Enterprise's Weapon Systems on line and at your command."

"Thank you Mr. Mcgarry." Sherlock placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder and pulled him gently from the room before they overheard too much.

Marcus put his hands on the wall to steady himself and then looked at Sherlock.

"My God. Did we just see a war starting?"

"Hopefully we just saw a war not starting."

"Would he really have done that? Given that order?"

"He's done it before."

"How does he live with that?"

"He doesn't. And that's why he is continually punishing himself. Goodnight Doctor Hatch."

It was starting to get light when Marcus finally moved from his seat on the terrace. Mycroft was still sat at the table, looking pale and tired, but more relaxed. Presumably the crisis had been avoided. And the world could carry on completely unaware.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"About earlier. You don't get to decide whether it's too dangerous for me or not. And you don't get to decide whether I'm happy or not. And you might not have been my first choice, but you will never be second best. You look absolutely knackered. Come to bed?" Marcus held out his hand with closed eyes and felt relief washing over him as he felt long warm fingers threading into his own.


	117. Completely Yours

John cheerfully packed the last pair of hideous shorts into his case and squeezed it shut. The boat was going to be arriving in half an hour to take him and Sherlock home and John had not been looking forward to the trip across the water with Sherlock turning inside out over the side. But of course, when John had woken up there had been a note on the bedside table for him to check the fridge. And inside the fridge, in a neat polystyrene container had been a syringe containing a dosage of high strength anti-nausea drugs. The type they gave astronauts. And sea sick pirates.

Sherlock was currently not speaking to John. He claimed that it had been a very cowardly thing to do. Sneaking up on someone when they were trying to fasten their suitcase, the contents of which had inexplicably doubled in size during the week and then sticking them with a needle when they weren't looking. Of course Sherlock's version of not speaking involved speaking a great deal. John whistled happily as he put Frank into his carry-on bag. He was sad to be leaving. But rather glad to be going home.

Mycroft looked at the ceiling, enjoying the warm weight pressed against his chest. Hardly daring to breathe in case he broke the magic spell. Marcus's breath was soft, blowing gently against his skin and Mycroft was aware of a strange aching feeling, spreading through his body. He knew what it was. And he couldn't dismiss it. Not any longer. It was always something he had been slightly ashamed of. A sign that he was not in control. That he had feelings. That he was human. Fallible. But having just spent a night pressed up closely to someone who wanted to be there. Who wasn't being paid to be there, Mycroft had no choice but to surrender to his desire.

Marcus felt strong arms possessively wrapped around him when he woke. He was pillowed against Mycroft's chest, the soft hair tickling his ear and his nostrils gently filling up with the scent of expensive aftershave and honey. Mycroft smelt of honey? Who knew? And there was something else. For the first time, in a very long time if he was being honest, Marcus felt safe. And wanted. He was laying in the arms of the most powerful man in the world, probably. A man who could order Presidents and Kings about, a man who could order nations destroyed. That should have been terrifying. If he could do that to a country, what could he do to a retired Naval Doctor with one leg? Only Marcus wasn't scared. He was Mycroft's. And he wanted to be Mycroft's completely.

Sherlock and John caught their boat without saying goodbye. Sherlock was about to burst into Mycroft's room with some brotherly abuse, but John stopped him. And John had been very pleased that it had taken Sherlock ten seconds to realise why. And the look of horror on his face was going to keep John warm on cold dark winter nights for years to come.

"You mean that my brother and Marcus are...?" Sherlock very nearly had his ear pressed to the door. John pulled him away.

"Yes. Don't look so surprised. You were the one who suggested we set them up in the first place."

"Only because I thought it wouldn't work. That's just wrong!"

"Well it did. Very well by the sounds of it. Let's leave them to it." John noticed for a man who was allegedly disgusted by the "goings on" his big brother was currently engaging in, Sherlock seemed to have an awfully big smile on his face.


	118. Home Sweet Home

It was always nice to have a holiday. But it was even nicer to come home. John sighed happily and put Frank down on the table next to the Skull and Sherrinford, no doubt Frank would be telling them all about his adventures later. Mrs Hudson was still away on her cruise and an assortment of brightly coloured postcards from across the planet littered the door mat, saying things like: "The weather is lovely." "I've been on a Camel." "Venice is beautiful but they don't make pasta like Angelo." She was obviously having the time of her life.

Of course after the holiday, there was the laundry. John checked the washing machine for body parts, because you just never knew when a foot was going to sneak up and bite you on the backside, and then set the first load going, washing the sea and sand out of his shorts as though he'd never been away. He sighed again. Slightly less happy.

Tea. That was what was required. Proper tea. In his favourite mug. Only there would be no milk. The fridge was empty. Not a sausage. Not even an eyeball. It was going to mean a trip to the shops. Another sigh. Back to reality and running the gauntlet of chip and pin machines. A knock on the door interrupted his introspection. When he opened it, he found one of Mycroft's people waiting on the landing.

"Good afternoon Doctor Watson. Jonathan Denborough." John recognised him as his "Lawyer" from the time he had punched Anderson. John also suspected that whilst the young man might well have a degree in Law, he was no more a Lawyer than Mycroft was a Minor Government Official. How many Lawyers carried guns?

"Hello. Is there a problem? Do you need Sherlock?"

"Oh good Lord no! M sent...er Mr Holmes senior sent me on an errand. He thought you might need supplies." Jonathan handed over a box of groceries to John. There was a large carton of milk on the top. And an assortment of biscuits underneath. John silently began a campaign in his head to have Mycroft proposed for Sainthood.

"Thank you."

"Yes thank you Jonathan." Sherlock had emerged from the shower, wearing a towel and his best "normal" smile. Jonathan immediately went a charming shade of crimson and looked at the floor, before nodding briefly at John and hurrying down the stairs.

"John you do know you're hugging that box of biscuits? You're getting as bad as my brother."

"What was that all about?" John placed the box on the table, arousing some interest from Frank and Sherrinford.

"Oh. Don't worry about it. He's scared of me. Of course he's even more scared of Mycroft." Sherlock smirked and flopped onto the sofa.

"And you enjoy that? That's not very nice Sherlock."

"I merely pointed out some obvious things to him once. He's very clever. Far above average. But so easy to read. He may as well carry a sign. And I suspect that he thinks that if I can see those things, then so can Mycroft, his boss. And that would be rather awkward."

"Oh God. What did you say?" John was beginning to understand why Jonathan had a gun.

"I merely pointed out that having a bad case of the unrequiteds for my brother was a completely fruitless endeavour. And that following him around like a love struck puppy, doing anything and everything he wants is not going to get him anywhere. Mycroft would only see it as a sign of weakness. And take advantage. Which obviously he has done today, as Jonathan interrupted his date to bring us milk and cookies!"

"Date?"

"Do keep up John. Jeans and a leather jacket? Not his usual work attire. No gun either. Not at work. And the car wasn't waiting for him downstairs. He had a tube ticket in his top pocket next to his phone. And could you not smell the two different types of aftershave? One very expensive. Likely to be Jonathan's, the other cheaper, generic. The Date's. Probably the first date. Something casual. Just to see if they like each other. He'd been drinking beer. You could smell it on his breath; there was a quite distinctive damp patch on his elbow where he'd leant on the bar. Not his usual choice of place for going out. The date is probably someone he met on the internet. There won't be a second meeting. There never is."

"Well not with you around certainly. "

"Not good?"

"Many levels of not good." John set about making the tea and selected a packet of Jammie Dodgers to enjoy. Sherlock's phone bleeped.

"It's a message from LeStrade. He hopes we enjoyed our holiday and he has a body. Come on John, no time for tea and biscuits. We've got a case!" Sherlock hurried off to dress. John sighed once more. It was good to be back.


	119. Jonathan's Date

The body was flat on its back. A single bullet hole exactly dead centre in its forehead. Sherlock peered with interest. He sniffed the air around the corpse. Then sniffed the elbow of the left arm of its jacket. Checked the fingers. And then stood up.

"Dull."

"I'm sorry?" LeStrade looked up from his notebook.

"Dull. Obvious. Boring." Sherlock turned to leave.

"I can see that holiday did him the world of good." Greg LeStrade looked at John for support. John nodded sympathetically and tried to look as though he knew what on earth Sherlock was on about. Sherlock was busy texting.

"Erm Sherlock? Explanation please?"

"Oh Yes. Well obviously been out on a date. Clean shoes, best clothes, although that Versace shirt is a fake. Recently had his hair cut, you can see the marks from the razor on the nape of the neck. Obviously out to impress someone. Probably a first date then. Gay. Or Maybe Bi. Left arm has beer all over it. He's been leaning on the bar. Not the kind of thing you do if you are with a lady. And you don't get dressed up like that to watch the football with the lads. So his date was another man. Who killed him."

"What?" John was getting increasingly wary about where this deduction was going.

"Yes John. I can smell the aftershave. Inspector. The man you are looking for is called Jonathan Denborough. He works for my brother. You'll find him waiting in the cells at headquarters. I've sent a message to Mycroft." Sherlock was off. John running to catch up.

"Sherlock?" John just made it into the taxi in time. "You're telling me that the dead bloke is Jonathan's date. And that Jonathan killed him?"

"New Scotland Yard please. Yes."

"Jonathan that brought us biscuits an hour ago? He's the murderer?"

"Yes John. I would have thought it was obvious."

"No."

"Really John." Sherlock sighed. "Did you get a good look at the body?"

"Erm...maybe." This caused another sigh from Sherlock.

"And what did you see John. What did you observe." Sherlock was using his best voice for stupid people.

"Shot through the head. Probably with a side arm rather than a rifle. Not at point blank range. So the murderer would have to be a good marksman. Not killed where the body was left, not enough blood. And okay. The aftershave."

"Well done John. You've missed almost everything of importance." Sherlock looked out of the window. John sensed he was enjoying himself immensely.

"So what did I miss?" John knew he was going to regret asking.

"What did the body look like?"

"Pale, dead?"

"Physical description John."

"Quite tall?" John sensed Sherlock's atom thin patience was about to go into meltdown.

"For God's sake John! At least Six foot two. Well built. Red hair. Long nose. Remind you of anyone?"

"Oh!" Well of course it was obvious once someone pointed it out.

"Exactly!"

Jonathan sat in his cell. They had taken his belt and his shoes. And his fingerprints. And swabs of both his wrists, testing for gunshot residue. He had already explained that he had been at the firing range earlier that day so they would no doubt find gunshot residue. He had been a little disappointed when he'd got back to his flat to discover that Mark wasn't waiting for him. He thought things had gone okay. He'd dropped off the groceries Mr Holmes had ordered for his brother and Doctor Watson, picked up a curry on the way home and was looking forward to an evening of getting to know Mark better. He quite liked Mark. He thought Mark quite liked him. But Jonathan's flat was empty. And it was only when he walked in to the kitchen to bin the curry that he noticed the blood all over the cupboards and the floor. And then he heard the sirens.

There was a forensics team ripping his flat apart now. Whilst he sat and waited. They would find everything. They would have called Mr Holmes. And they would have called his father. Jonathan felt sick. Mark was probably dead. They thought Jonathan had done it. He supposed there was enough evidence to say he had. Questions would be asked in court. Answers would have to be given. Witnesses called. And of course the truth would be told. And sometimes the truth was not what everyone should hear. But of course there was a way to limit the damage.

Jonathan pressed the call buzzer and a harassed looking Sergeant opened the panel in the door.

"What do you need son?" Of course, Innocent until proven guilty.

"Could you please tell the Inspector in charge of this case that I'm prepared to admit to the murder if he would like to take my statement."


	120. Facing the Consequences

"I still don't get why he would go out and buy a whole meal for two if he knew he was coming back to an empty flat." John was not convinced of Jonathan's guilt. It seemed he was in a minority. There was a whole pile of evidence stacked up against him, but still, this was Jonathan, he'd brought them biscuits.

"Part of his alibi. He obviously didn't think the body would be discovered so quickly." Sherlock was still convinced. An uneaten curry proved nothing.

"He dumped the body in the middle of the park? And surely he'd have needed help? We must be looking for more than one killer?" John looked around the flat. It was nice. Expensive. Completely impersonal. Not a single thing to tell you about who lived there.

"John. That doesn't mean Jonathan didn't do it. It just means he had an accomplice."

"Yes. I suppose." The dead man was Jonathan's date. There was blood soaked clothing belonging to Jonathan in the apartment. Jonathan was a crack shot according to his records. And they had just heard over the radio that Jonathan had confessed. But John still didn't buy it.

"Interesting." Sherlock was absorbed in a folder.

"What's interesting?"

"Jonathan's medical records." Sherlock waved the file in front of John. "There appear to have been a disproportionate amount of childhood injuries."

"Let's see" John began to read. A three year old Jonathan had broken his wrist playing on the stairs. Then four months later had broken the humerus of the same arm, this time attempting to climb a wall in the garden. Aged four, it seemed Jonathan had fallen off of his bike, resulting in several broken ribs and a concussion. The litany of injuries continued until the age of seven when there was a lull lasting for a few months, before another broken wrist in late July. And so it continued. Jonathan, it seemed had been an accident prone child. Particularly in the months of July and August. Right up until the age of eighteen when he had been admitted to hospital because of a fractured cheekbone, the result, according to the records, of an altercation with a cricket ball. And then suddenly it seemed, he had grown out of his clumsiness. Other than a bout of tonsillitis aged twenty three and a gunshot wound to the right arm four years ago. John felt a little sickened. Murderer or not, it was obvious to John's trained medical eye that Jonathan had been subjected to physical abuse as a child, most likely from a parent or family member. No one it seemed had noticed. Perhaps no one had cared.

Sherlock had turned his attention to Jonathan's laptop. "Interesting."

John peered over Sherlock's shoulder. Of course Sherlock had managed to get Jonathan's emails on screen.

"Sherlock, don't. There's probably private stuff on there." Sherlock ignored him and continued to read, and open attachments.

"Oh!"

"Oh what?"

"Not the first date then." The picture on the screen clearly showed Jonathan, looking rather predictably adorable in a dinner jacket, and the deceased laughing at the camera wearing an obviously rented tuxedo. The accompanying email was even more telling.

_Hi Jay,_

_Had a really great time last night. Can't wait to see you at the weekend._

_Love, Sparky._

"John. He didn't do it." Sherlock was looking at the splatters of blood over the kitchen units.

"He's already admitted he did."

"Well he didn't. I was wrong." That stopped John in his tracks.

"What did you just say?"

"I was wrong. Of course the evidence all points to Jonathan. Leads us back here. Which is what they wanted to do. Jonathan's date was not the original target."

"So who was? Mycroft?"

"Good John. But no. Jonathan was the target. We are dealing with a hired assassin. He's been told to go to this address and kill the man who lives here. Unfortunately, Mycroft called Jonathan away on his Biscuit Assignment. I would imagine that Jonathan gave, Mark was it?"John nodded, impressed Sherlock had bothered to remember that. "He gave Mark his keys. The real murderer saw him letting himself into the flat and assumed he was the target."

"Talk about bad luck. Why has Jonathan confessed then?"

"He either knows who the murderer is and is protecting them, or he's trying to avoid a scandal."

"A scandal?"

"Government Lawyer in Gay Lover Murder Trial. If he pleads not guilty or allows the investigation to continue who knows what our friends in the press will dig up. Jonathan's fallen on his sword for somebody. I sincerely hope it isn't Mycroft. He won't appreciate it."

It was only once they had stripped him of his clothes, the forensics people had checked him over and he had been given prison issue overalls to wear that the magnitude of what was happening hit him. And even then it felt wrong. As though he was numb. They had taken pictures. Focussing on the scratches on his chest and the bruises on his thigh. Injuries from a struggle they said.

He'd known it was wrong when he had first placed the advertisement. But really what harm could it do? And when Mark had answered Jonathan's heartfelt plea for a tall redhead, well no one was going to get hurt by it. But now Mark was lying in a fridge somewhere. And it was Jonathan's fault. Even if he hadn't pulled the trigger. And when something was your fault you had to face the consequences and the punishment.


	121. Sins of the Father

John could hear the conversation through the speaker. Jonathan was lying through his teeth. Only it didn't really look like Jonathan. He was pale, fidgeting in his seat; all traces of the self-assured young man John knew were gone. Replaced by something nervous and frightened. In the seat opposite Jonathan, a large, heavy set man in his late fifties was growling dangerously. Jonathan's father, Lord Tobias Denborough. John did not like the look of him one bit.

"Did you know this person?"

"No" Lie

"What was he doing in your flat then?"

"Delivering food." Lie

"You shot him?"

"Yes." Lie

"Don't lie to me. Who was this person?"

"I don't know." Lie

"What am I going to tell your mother? And God knows what the Hunt Committee will say. I don't understand. You had the best education money could buy. Introductions, I've used my contacts to help you. I had hoped that this job would sort you out. But it seems I was wrong. Thank God your elder brother is nothing like you. You have never been anything but a disappointment to me."

"Bbbut...I...I..." Jonathan couldn't speak. The stammer he kept so carefully controlled was threatening to undo him.

"Stop that ridiculous noise boy." One of Lord Denborough's meaty hands smacked into the back of his son's head. John heard the crack. Saw the blood. The force of the blow had knocked Jonathan face first into the table. And in John Watson's head all he could see was a terrified little boy having his bones broken by this brute of a man because he failed to meet his expectations. John was filled with an overwhelming urge to go and give him a taste of his own medicine. John turned and walked straight into Mycroft, who had silently appeared.

"I never understand people who have children and don't realise what a wonderful gift they are." Mycroft peered through the window of the interview room. Jonathan had made no move to wipe the blood away from his face.

"Mycroft, he didn't do it. I don't know why he's confessed, but Sherlock says the evidence is wrong."

"I know he didn't John. But I rather think that in confessing young Mr Denborough was hoping to avoid certain questions that will have to be asked, and answers that will have to be given. I will require you to perform a medical examination shortly John."

"Of course. Anything I can do to help."

"Oh and John? Leave Tobias Denborough to me." Mycroft was let in to the interview room, his face a cold mask of indifference disguising perfectly what was going on in his head. John almost felt sorry for Tobias Denborough. Almost.

"Mycroft!"

"Tobias."

"Bloody sorry state of affairs this. Still, always been something wrong with this one. I can only apologise Mycroft. You never have much hope for the runt of the litter, but even so. Murder?"

Mycroft tilted his head backwards slightly. Part of John could hardly bear to watch. Tobias Denborough was about to be eviscerated on the spot. It would be brutal. Painful. But part of John had to bear witness.

"Jonathan? Would you like to tell your father who Mark really was? Or would you like me to do it?"

Jonathan mumbled something.

"Speak properly!" But Jonathan remained silent.

"The dead man's name was Mark Durham. I believe he worked for a charitable organisation with young people. Quite remarkable really when one considers the terrible circumstances of his upbringing. However, rather than pursuing a life of crime or selfishness, it seems that Mr. Durham devoted himself to helping children who suffered abuse at the hands of family members. It is indeed a tragedy that such a spirited individual should have their life cruelly cut short." Mycroft's expression hadn't changed. "Jonathan?"

"We were going out."

"Going out where?" Tobias Denborough was obviously stupid and ignorant. Mycroft would destroy him.

"Mark was your son's...boyfriend? Yes I think you are still young enough to have boyfriends aren't you Jonathan. When you get to my age they become partners. It's somewhat depressing really."

"Jonathan? Mycroft what are you telling me?" Tobias Denborough was standing in front of Mycroft, fists clenching and unclenching. If he tried to hit Mycroft it would be the last thing he ever did on this earth. "Are you telling me my son is a poof?" Actually that was probably the last thing. John saw the colour flush up the back of Mycroft's neck.

"I'm telling you he's not a murderer. In confessing to everything, Jonathan has rather nobly bought us time to catch the real killer. Murderers. Stupid lot. They always let their guard down when they don't think anyone is looking for them. When they think they have got away with it."

The door of the observation room opened. Sherlock walked in, looking rather cheerful.

"How's he doing?"

"Well, Mycroft's just said Jonathan didn't do it. And I think he's just outed him to his dad. This is his idea of helping yes?"

"LeStrade knows that the confession was false. Jonathan will get a rap on the knuckles for wasting police time but there won't be any charges. And the real killer will soon be apprehended. Or at least the person who hired the real killer" Sherlock pressed his nose to the glass to watch his brother in action.

"It was all very cleverly done, once the killer realised they'd killed the wrong man. All except one thing of course. Sherlock. Do come in and explain. And bring Doctor Watson."

"Come on John. We're up!"

"Ah Sherlock. This is my brother Sherlock Holmes. He's so much better at explaining this sort of thing than me." Mycroft sat down, folding his arms expectantly.

"All the evidence pointed to Jonathan. The clothes. The blood all over the apartment. He knew the deceased. He's a crack shot. But the killer was right handed."

"What are you talking about? My son is right handed."

"Yes he is. He writes with his right hand. Surprised you knew that really as you seem to know nothing else about him. For instance, you don't seem to know that all those years you were breaking the bones in his right arm, whilst he was still growing, you were weakening it. Right up to the point he took a bullet for someone four years ago and the damage was so extensive it has only just healed. Which means that four years ago Jonathan had to learn to shoot left handed. If he'd used a gun recently with his right hand the recoil would have resulted in quite serious injuries. My colleague Doctor Watson will just verify this for me. John?" Sherlock did enjoy grandstanding.

"Yes. Jonathan could you remove your shirt for me please?" John looked at the right arm. The muscles were considerably less developed than the left. John could feel the lumpy bones around the sites of previous breaks. There were a series of scars where some kind of pins had been inserted.

"Well as you can see the right arm is considerably weaker. This recent break is barely healed. Any violent movement would result in further damage. If Jonathan had fired a gun with his right arm it would be broken again."

"All those years of abuse Tobias. And what you were actually doing was providing your son with an alibi. Did someone tip you off? Did someone tell you he was seeing an abuse councillor? Afraid it would all come out? So you paid for a hit on your own son. A son that was clever enough to work it out straight away. A son that despite owing you nothing was prepared to go to prison rather than betray you. Unlike the monkey with the gun you hired to kill him. He's confessed to everything for a reduced sentence. If it was up to me you would hang for this."

"Now look here Sedgefield..."

"Sherlock, John, Jonathan. Do leave us. I believe Lord Denborough and I are going to discuss the terms of his surrender."

John was about to protest but Sherlock placed a hand of warning on John's back.

"Let's go. Now." Outside the room Greg LeStrade was waiting for them.

"Well?"

"I'd give it ten minutes if I were you." There was nod of understanding between the Detective and the Detective Inspector. And then a rather chilling silence.


	122. Titles

Mycroft didn't raise his voice. Mycroft never laid as much as a finger on him. But when the allotted time was up, Lord Tobias Denborough was destroyed. The bully reduced to a pathetic creature sitting in a puddle of his own tears and snot and urine. Not daring to look up in case there was another onslaught. Not daring to make a sound in case Mycroft brought the wrath of heaven down on him. And to all those watching, it seemed as though that might just be within Mycroft's power.

"i know we've had our differences." Sherlock whispered to John in the silence of the observation room. "But sometimes, just sometimes I really love my brother."

"That was old school." LeStrade whispered in agreement. There was a slight murmur as several of the senior police officers who were also watching concurred.

"God I miss the seventies." DI Hunt muttered at the back.

It had taken Mycroft fifty three seconds from the door closing, leaving him and Lord Denborough alone in the room, to have the Peer spilling his confession. He had hired a gunman to kill his youngest son. He had been told his son was talking to an abuse councillor. He was only thinking of his reputation and the family name. He was really sorry. Mycroft had leaned forward, his eyes narrowed in to slits and had said quietly.

"I think you will be."

Mycroft had regarded Jonathan's father as though he was something unpleasant he had discovered on the bottom of his shoe. Then he stood up. The man crying in the chair cowered and shrunk further. Mycroft had reduced him to nothing.

"Sherlock?" They were walking along the corridors of Scotland Yard. Mycroft was in front of them talking with LeStrade. "What did Lord Denborough call Mycroft back there? Sedgefield? What's that all about?"

"It's his title." Sherlock was using his bored voice.

"His what?"

"His title. Mycroft, Lord Sedgefield."

"Mycroft's a Lord?" That explained a lot. And at the same time created another batch of questions. Such as: Did Sherlock have a title? And who inherited it when Mycroft and Sherlock were gone?

"It's not important John. He never uses the title. Never has done really. Titles are boring. And you always get men like Tobias Denborough who think people are impressed by them and should give you special treatment."

"Sherlock, you do know that I can hear you talking about me?" Mycroft didn't break his stride. " Our father said that the only titles worth having are the ones we earn. That those are the ones that truly deserve respect. The ones that actually matter. Now please, I would appreciate it if it wasn't mentioned again, Doctor Watson."

Jonathan Denborough pulled on his brand new clothes. Anthea had dropped them off earlier. A new suit in navy blue. A crisp white shirt, freshly laundered and starched. A silk tie with a pattern of Giraffes on it. Anthea had apologised about the Giraffes. Apparently her son had picked the tie and was going through a Giraffe phase. It was fine. New clothes to face a brave new world.

Jonathan knew he would have to resign. Now that everything was out in the open. Mr Holmes had not been so crass as to ask for his resignation, but it was of course the traditional resolution to such things. Perhaps Jonathan could actually get a job as a lawyer now? Or maybe he would look at doing some charity work? Or he could perhaps combine both? At that moment he felt as though he could do anything. He was free.

Marcus Hatch found Mycroft in the study. There was an open letter on the desk, handwritten, the writing neat, formal.

"Jonathan has written me a letter of resignation." Mycroft relaxed into the arms around his shoulders.

"Please tell me you're not going to accept it?"

"I really don't see what else I can do." Mycroft leant back a little further.

"Has he actually done anything wrong?"

"No. But the situation is rather embarrassing."

"Because he fancies you?"

"Partly."

"He doesn't. Not really. You were simply a manifestation of his desire for approval from an older male role model. He was seeking a father figure, as he was let down so badly by his own."

"Have you been looking on the internet again?"

"You realise you were probably the first older male who actually gave him praise and showed him kindness? And didn't break his bones when he made a mistake? It's no wonder he wanted your approval, and no wonder he had a _thing_ for you? After all what is the ultimate approval? Going out with someone? Sleeping with them? Now you be a good boy. Tell Jonathan you are unable to accept his resignation. And leave the rest to an expert. " Marcus ran his hand up the front of Mycroft's shirt.

"I take it you approve of me then Doctor?"

"I do indeed Mr Holmes."

In 221B Baker Street, John Watson suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, making Sherlock drop the book he was reading and look over anxiously. John had a big grin on his sleepy face. Not a bad dream then.

"John? Are you all right? What is it?"

"Mycroft."

"What about him?" John was having dreams about Mycroft? A lot not good.

"He called me _Doctor_ Watson." John smiled happily and went back to sleep.


	123. Spin the Bottle

"I am unable to accept this Jonathan." Mycroft Holmes tore the letter neatly in half.

"I'm sorry Mr Holmes, I don't understand."

"It is very difficult to find intelligent and conscientious staff prepared to work odd hours. It's very difficult to find staff with a sense of loyalty and duty. And in politics it is almost impossible to find staff that are prepared to make personal sacrifices for the greater good. Once i have found such an individual you will understand my reluctance to lose them. Jonathan, you go when I say."

"Bbbutt...Mr Holmes." Jonathan flinched a little. Hardly noticeable to anyone else, but Mycroft was keeping a special eye on his young assistant.

"Jonathan the matter is closed." Mycroft beamed a rare smile, causing Jonathan to blush. They would have to work on that.

"Thank you sir." Jonathan paused. Checked the knot on his tie. His new tie with the Giraffes.

Marcus Hatch was looking with some confusion at an aisle of wine. He was in an upmarket vintners on the King's Road. It was one of Mycroft's favourite shops. Marcus never realised there were quite so many types of wine. He'd always been more of a beer and whisky kind of guy. As far as he was concerned there was Red, White and Pink. He needed help. One of the shop assistants had been eyeing him up as though he was going to rob the place. Yes he was wearing ripped Jeans and a faded Mr Tickle T-shirt, but there was no need for an attitude like that. He thought about calling John Watson, but then common sense told him John probably knew as much about wine as he did. He was going to have to leave empty handed and face the smirk of Mycroft. He sensed this errand was some sort of relationship test.

"_Can you pop into the wine shop and pick up a bottle for dinner?"_

"_Yeah, sure. No problem."_

And then he was struck by a masterstroke. He would just buy something expensive. Surely they couldn't charge that amount if it wasn't any good? He reached for a bottle labelled at £89.99.

"I wouldn't buy that if I were you. It tastes like drain cleaner." A deep voice behind him intoned. Marcus knew who it was without seeing.

"Stephen?" He turned around and looked up. Stephen was even taller than Mycroft. And considerable wider.

"Traitor!" The assistant was getting closer now.

"Sorry?" Not the reaction he had been expecting.

"I hear you're dating a Light Blue. How could you?" Stephen Gray and Marcus had been on the college rowing crew at Oxford, they'd never quite made it to the varsity team having spent far too much time in The Trout and not enough in the river. Stephen looked sternly disappointed for a moment and then broke into a smile. "A Light Blue that likes wine." Stephen reached a bottle from the shelf and handed it to Marcus. The assistant was hovering close by.

"Mr Gray, do you need any help Sir?"

"Darling, could you wrap this up for my friend. Oh and a bottle of that new Chilean stuff that came in this morning."

"Yes Sir." The assistant scurried off with the wine.

"Do you like my little shop then?" Of course. The sign above the door said _Gray's: The Finest Wines Available To Humanity._

"You went into the wine business?"

"Well, I was considering a career as a swimwear model but I didn't really think I could make a go of it." Stephen's girth was quite impressive. "Anyway, why has Mycroft Holmes sent you and not his cute little assistant?"

"The cute little assistant, who by the way is called Jonathan, is otherwise occupied."

"What a shame. I do look forward to his visits. He certainly knows his wine. And he blushes such a charming pink colour when he speaks." Stephen looked quite wistful when he spoke. And a light bulb clicked on in Marcus Hatch's head. "He reminds me of Robert."

Robert had been Stephen's huge crush in his first year. A very gifted Chemist and star of the University Soccer team. It was a love that went tragically unrequited. There was a lot of that about it seemed. But Marcus knew, from firsthand experience, that sometimes the fates smiled kindly.

"Why don't you join us for dinner on Friday? You can meet Mycroft. And his cute little assistant."

"I'll bring a bottle."


	124. Gray's Anatomy

Mycroft was quite pleased that they had reached the stage in their relationship where Marcus felt able to invite his friends for dinner. Officially they weren't living together. Marcus still had his own flat. Not that he spent any time there. Mycroft was less than pleased, however, that Marcus had chosen to invite Stephen Gray.

Mycroft knew Stephen quite well. And not simply in his capacity as proprietor of the best wine shop in London. Stephen had a rather useful talent for gathering information, and an even more admirable ability to filter information for the items of relevance. Almost as good as Mycroft's own. It was usually quite simple to get someone on the Watch List to visit Gray's. A casual recommendation usually sufficed. And then Stephen, with that urbane charm of his, would have them spilling their innermost secrets without them ever realising. No one suspected under the cuddly exterior of fluffy greying hair and crumpled linen shirts that Stephen was waiting, patiently, to sink his teeth in.

The conversation had gone something along the lines of:

"_Good Morning, Gray's: The Finest Wines Available to Humanity."_

"_You do know no one thinks that's funny but you? Even the ones that have seen the film."_

"_Hello Mr Mycroft Holmes. And how's my favourite Civil Servant this morning?"_

"_Very well Mr. Gray. Thank you. I'm sending someone to you."_

"_Oh lovely. And there was me thinking this morning was going to be boring. Is it the usual?"_

"_No actually. I'm sending a friend to buy some wine. I would be grateful if you would make sure he doesn't empty his bank account buying that goat's piss you have the audacity to charge ninety pounds a bottle for." _

"_Friend? Really."_

"_Yes. Friend." Mycroft could see how Stephen got such good results. He, Mycroft Holmes, was beginning to squirm_.

"_Does your friend have a name? Give me some details. You know I like details."_

"_Doctor Marcus Hatch. I believe you may already know him .As you were at the same Oxford College."_

"_Oh I know Marcus!" And Mycroft had a really horrible feeling he had just told Stephen everything he needed to know. _

Stephen had smiled as he put the phone down. Mycroft Holmes, the man they said was perfectly capable of ripping your intestines out whilst smiling and casually remarking on the weather, was dating Marcus Hatch, the nicest guy on the planet. It was an obvious deduction based upon the information. He was a little disappointed that Marcus had gone over to the Dark Side and was dating someone from Cambridge, he would have words later! And of course get confirmation from Marcus by pretending he knew all about it. Quite simple really. He'd never use the information against Mycroft of course; it was merely to satisfy his own curiosity and love of gossip. And besides, he liked his entrails on the inside.

When Stephen Gray arrived at Mycroft's it sounded as though there was some kind of insurrection taking place. Once he was shown through into the lounge he realised it was actually just a particularly brutal game of Hungry Hippos. Jonathan Denborough's face was a picture of concentration. He seemed to be doing rather well. Next to him, with equal concentration a small blond haired boy was furiously hammering his Hippo's tail in a bid to spur the creature on to greater things. The man in charge of the Green Hippo was not doing well due to an ill disguised giggling fit. Next to him, trying to operate a Blue Hippo was the man Stephen recognised as Sherlock Holmes both Hippo and Detective looked somewhat confused.

"This is absolute nonsense. You can't work out the angles or the most efficient ratio of tail presses. This game is just not scientific!"

"It's called Hungry Hippos Sherlock. Exactly how much science were you expecting?"

"I might have known you'd take the side of the Hippos John." Sherlock huffed and stood up. Noticed Stephen, looked at him. Then looked at him again more intensely. Then he frowned.

"Oh Hello. I'm John Watson. Sorry about that." John sprang to his feet to shake hands.

"Stephen Gray. I'm a friend of Marcus's"

"This is Sherlock, Mycroft's brother." John prodded Sherlock, who was still staring. Stephen's outstretched hand was ignored for a few seconds before Sherlock switched on his "normal" face.

"Hi. Stephen. Sherlock Holmes." He shook hands and then went back to staring; John was on the verge of hitting him.

Stephen smiled to himself and looked down to the floor where he was surprised to see Jonathan helping the small boy with an inhaler.

"I think you got a bit too excited Nicky. Maybe we should play something quiet next." He was so very gentle as he comforted the boy. Jonathan stood, picking Nicky and an elderly Giraffe up at the same time. He smiled briefly at Stephen and then blushed. "Come on Nicky, let's go and find Mummy."

"Stephen. There you are!" Marcus appeared in the doorway at the other end of the room. "Come on through."

John and Sherlock were left alone in the lounge. Sherlock still had that intense, slightly confused expression on his face.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?"

"Stephen Gray. I looked at him and I couldn't tell anything about him. John I can't deduce him!"


	125. Early Morning Jam Tarts

Mycroft sat at the desk in his study. Early morning. The sun just starting to rise. Marcus was asleep. The guests had departed. Mycroft was temporarily alone once more. He wished he could sleep. Sleep like normal people. Normal people who didn't have a head full of data and ideas and knowledge. Normal people who didn't have the safety of the Nation resting squarely on their shoulders. That was, he supposed, the price you paid.

Considering the cross section of individuals that had been seated at Mycroft's enormous Regency Dining table, dinner was actually quite pleasant. Mycroft, at the head of the table had watched with interest.

John Watson had carved the joint of beef with surgical precision, as was to be expected. There was a kind of terrible artistry to it. Watching the bone handled carving knife. The same one that generations of the family Holmes had used before them. Watching the careful, steady hands reduce the meat to a pile of neat, precise slices.

Marcus had looked on approvingly. Mycroft was certain he was more than capable of performing the same culinary surgery. That had given him a little chill down his spine he didn't quite understand. However Marcus was also preoccupied fielding questions about artificial limbs from Nicky. How did they work? Did they hurt? Could you wiggle the artificial toes? Did they come in different colours?

Nicky in between his cross examination of Doctor Hatch, was being prodded to eat his dinner by his mother, and had also been attempting to feed pieces of carrot to Wordsworth. The Giraffe looked even less impressed than his tiny guardian at the presence of vegetables. As Mycroft recalled, Wordsworth had been fed on an exclusive diet of mint humbugs when he was at Harrow.

Mrs Hudson had been a little late for dinner. But then she had been getting a tour of London in a Chauffeur driven Rolls Royce. When she had arrived she had brought a consignment of Jam Tarts with her, which had resulted in a change of menu. The Jam tarts had been brought out for dessert on an elegant silver cake stand.

Jonathan had been excusing himself at regular intervals in order to answer his phone. No doubt dealing with the minor crisis as they arose. He would have continued like that for the duration of the evening if Marcus hadn't shot Mycroft a meaningful look. He suspected if Marcus hadn't been sat at the other end of the table he would have probably kicked him. Mycroft told Jonathan to switch off his phone. If they really had a problem they could send someone round to the house. This had then freed up Jonathan to talk to Stephen Gray.

Sherlock had been seated to Mycroft's right. He had said very little for the duration of the meal. And had eaten perhaps three mouthfuls of food. And even then only at John's insistence. Sherlock had spent the duration of dinner pretending not to stare at Stephen Gray. Obviously the man bothered Sherlock. He bothered Mycroft as well. Irrational as it was. Mycroft knew there was nothing the matter with Stephen. He was clever, polite, loyal to the cause, owned a wine shop, and had managed to get an entire conversation about swimming out of Jonathan. But. There was just that one thing.

When Mycroft looked at Stephen Gray, he found it impossible to gather even the smallest shred of information about him.

Mycroft sighed. It was a little after four thirty. He took a bite out of a jam tart. There was troop movement in Korea. Uranium in Libya. And riots in Panama. A normal day really. A normal day in which someone would end up dead. Someone would end up deposed. And someone would end up taking the responsibility. Someone called Mycroft.

He thought about the faces around his table the previous evening. He thought about the table. It had been in the family for years. Mummy had given it to him. As the eldest son. Although who would get the thing once he was gone he did not know. The same as the title. The same as the family silverware and the family carving knife. Family. In his head the word was synonymous with Duty.

He started on his second jam tart. Well actually it was his sixth all told, but he had reset the tart counter at midnight. He looked at his computer screen. At the mess he would have to sort out. But it was his duty to keep the smiling faces around his table safe. The faces of his real family. The people he loved.

Mycroft finished his jam tart, poured himself a cup of tea and set about saving the world before breakfast. Again.


	126. Sorry For Wordsworth

Sherrinford the tiger was rather disappointed. He had been hoping for a jam tart. Well more specifically a Marmalade Tart. He liked marmalade. It was sort of stripy and tiger like. However the earlier promise that had been wafting upstairs from Mrs Hudson's kitchen was broken. The tarts had been taken to dinner at Mycroft's. And even as a small stuffed tiger, Sherrinford knew Mycroft's house was where pastry went to die.

Frank was in rather a good mood. He had enjoyed his holiday in Greece. Granted it had not been quite as much fun as the holidays he remembered from John's childhood. The ones where he got taken everywhere, clutched in the small, but strong hands of his little soldier. The ones where Frank was consulted on a wide range of topics from Ice Cream flavours to sand-castle decoration. The ones where he would spend warm summer nights curled up next to John. Watching over him. Just in case.

The Skull was bored. If he'd still got fingers he would have been drumming them in incessant and complicated rhythms on the mantelpiece. Frank and the Tiger were nice, of course. Frank had some very interesting theories on the complicated nature of humans. Sherrinford was not very intellectual, but was keen on trivia, and understood things like the offside rule, and the whole Bad Wolf thing from Doctor Who. The Skull often thought they would make a very good team in a pub quiz. Although they may have difficulty writing the answers down as no-one had thumbs.

They all felt sorry for Wordsworth.

Frank still got hugged by John. He always would. His little soldier was still alive. Still needed him. Frank was not quite sure what he would do if one day John didn't come home.

Sherrinford had never been loved. He'd been donated. An unwanted gift. He'd never known what it was like to have small arms hugging you. Needing you. But now he was loved. He got patted and stroked and no one tried to shove him into a bin liner. He was not quite sure what he would do if that love suddenly went away. He tried to think about it but it made his stuffing hurt.

The skull had been loved once upon a time. When he had a body. And flesh. He knew what it was like to love as well . He knew what it was like to be human. And he knew what it was like to die. But then he had also come to understand what it was like to get a second chance. A second life. A second love. He wondered if Wordsworth would ever get that.

Wordsworth sat quietly on the bed. He was thinking about Mycroft. Caring wasn't an advantage. That was what he was always saying. Which was just silly because of how much Mycroft actually cared. First hand Wordsworth had witnessed years of grief. Years of guilt. Year of self imposed loneliness. Not that he was complaining. He'd asked for the job. He thought Mycroft was better now.

He'd noticed earlier that he had a loose thread. He would have to bring it to Mycroft's attention tomorrow. Well later today. But at the moment he had an important job to do. He had to watch Nicky very carefully. He had failed once. He was determined never to do so again. And whilst he knew that it wasn't his Nicholas. Sometimes when he closed his eyes and felt the warm hands stroking him he could pretend it was.

Wordsworth knew they all felt sorry for him.


	127. The Oncoming Storm

The first few drops of rain splattered against the windowsill, hissing on the hot brickwork. Sherlock looked at the distorted skyline, the clouds piling up above the city. The heat stuffed into every corner of London, threatening to burst the seams. And above. Further off. The first low growl. The first neon flicker as the oncoming storm approached.

John was asleep. The covers kicked off. Wearing nothing but a pair of thin cotton boxer shorts, a sheen of sweat covering him from head to foot. He woke to the overhead rumble of the thunder and the sound of the rain beating on the roof. John liked thunderstorms. There was something to be said for all that power. All that uncontrolled anger from the heavens.

Mycroft hardly acknowledged the weather outside as it beat against the window of his study. Not until a particularly loud bang got his attention. The garden was blurred but illuminated every so often by the staccato flicker of the lightning. Mycroft recalled as a small boy, perhaps eight years old, he had ventured into the grounds of the Holmes mansion and stood watching the whole village and surrounding countryside being lit-up. The crack of the thunder, right over head. The power of that storm beating against everything that he knew, everything that made up his small world. He had heard Sherlock crying in the nursery. He had watched the storm until he was quite soaked and Nanny had found him and dragged him indoors. Sherlock had continued to cry well into the night. Mycroft loved storms. Storms were power.

John found Sherlock watching at the window. His pale face illuminated every few seconds. The rain spluttering in through the open window and hitting his skin. Other than the Lightning, the room was in darkness.

"Are you okay?" The room wavered in the light, the familiar objects difficult to make out.

"Of course I'm okay John." Sherlock turned towards him, the light silhouetting him against the skyline.

"Good. Yeah. Just checking. Some people don't like thunderstorms."

"Do you?"

"Me? I love them. All that raw elemental power? They remind me of when I was young. When I was a kid my Uncle Ross used to tell me that it was God's firework display. But what I love most of all is just after. When everywhere smells clean. It's sort of nice." John noticed that Sherlock was shivering slightly in spite of the still humidity.

"I don't like storms." Sherlock didn't add _because they remind me of my childhood_.

"Let's have a cup of tea?" It was almost as though John knew. Surely not? Surely he couldn't know what Sherlock was thinking? John went to fill the kettle, leaving Sherlock staring out of the window.


	128. Watching

Jonathan's new apartment block had a swimming pool. And his new apartment was far larger and nicer than his old one. After what had happened Mycroft had decided it was probably best for Jonathan to move and he had arranged for all of Jonathan's things to be relocated to the new apartment. The new apartment also had much better security. And surveillance. The pool had been Anthea's idea. Well actually it had been Nicky's. Apparently Jonathan was keen on swimming.

As Mycroft looked out of his window in Kensington, and John comforted Sherlock with tea in Baker Street, Jonathan was busy swimming lengths of the basement pool. It was quiet. He'd only ever seen one other person using the pool, a slim, pale Irish guy with bright eyes. Jonathan thought he was the boyfriend of the girl that lived in apartment three, which was strange as for a brief moment as they had exchanged the pleasantries of strangers, Jonathan was sure the man had been checking him out.

But now. Right now. He was alone. Some might have thought the green light from the pool a little eerie. But Jonathan knew there were far more tangible things in the world to be frightened of. The warm water helped his arm. Kind of like physiotherapy. Of course Mycroft had paid for that as well. Some specialist from Harley Street who Jonathan went to twice a week. The storm outside caused the dim lights to flicker a little, and when his head wasn't under the water he could hear the occasional rumble. But mostly he could just hear his own breathing and splashing in the quite echoes of the pool.

He turned for another lap, number seventy three, pushing through the ache that was beginning in his muscles. He didn't see the bright eyes watching him from the darkness.

The rain was easing a little. John and Sherlock sat on the window seat, drinking tea. Silently watching as the storm abated. John moved a little closer, brushing against Sherlock's arm.

"I'm all right John."

"I know you are." John put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "It's all fine?"

Mycroft flicked between screens on his laptop. At Baker Street his brother and John Watson seemed to be fine. In the flat below, Mrs Hudson was asleep and undisturbed by the storm. Anthea had fallen asleep on her sofa again. He would have to have words with her about that. Nicky was sleeping peacefully, the monitors showing that his heart was beating normally. At New Scotland Yard, Inspector LeStrade was just finishing up a report. Everyone was safe. He flicked to the final set of cameras. Jonathan's apartment was empty, so Mycroft switched to the camera in the swimming pool. Just in time to see Jonathan haul himself out.

"You know that is ever so slightly voyeuristic?" Mycroft turned to see Marcus smiling at him from the doorway. On the screen he watched the neat figure of his assistant towelling himself off.

"Yes i suppose it is."

"The physio seems to be doing him some good anyway." Marcus had limped across the room and was leaning against Mycroft's chair. They watched as Jonathan exited the pool. Mycroft had just reached for the mouse to change screens when he stopped.

The figure that had been watching from the shadows turned to the camera and smiled before following Jonathan.

"Oh. That's not good." Marcus watched Mycroft's face pale and his eyes darken. Whatever storm had just raged over London, it was nothing to the one that was about to happen.


	129. Not Sophie's Boyfriend

Jonathan normally took the stairs, but he was feeling a little sore and achy. Perhaps he had a cold coming? That would go down really well. If he had to ask Mycroft for time off. He was still a little bit, well rather a lot bit, scared of him. He pressed the button to call the lift.

"Hey, excuse me?" A voice made him look up. Girl in apartment three's boyfriend was walking towards him. "Are these your keys?" Boyfriend held up Jonathan's key ring, which had his apartment slide key attached to it. Jonathan could have sworn he'd not heard them drop.

"Thank you." The lift pinged and the doors slid open. Boyfriend handed over the keys. Jonathan shifted uncomfortably, becoming very aware that he was wearing nothing but swimming trunks and a towel.

"Sophie's not my girlfriend." He was standing very close now. "She's a friend from work. I'm just staying with her whilst I look for a place of my own." Closer. His eyes were brown, but not gentle, more like the boiling and raging of a silt filled river in spate. He smiled.

"Oh right. What do you do?" Behind him the lift door shut.

"I'm a maths teacher. What about you?"

"I work for The Government." Technically that was true.

"Is that a posh way of saying you're a civil servant?

"Something like that." Jonathan could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down his back.

"My name's Richard, by the way. Rich."

"Jonathan.

"Hi Jonathan." Richard smiled warmly at him. "Has anyone ever told you you're cute?"

"Not recently no." There was a mere inch separating them now.

"Well you are. Goodnight. See you around?" Richard winked and walked off up the corridor. Jonathan let out the breath he had been holding and pushed the lift call button again.

The storm was over. John had clicked on the lamp to give them a little more light. It was still warm and very soon dawn would begin. There was really no point in going back to bed. Not now. He pulled Sherlock closer to him on the sofa, stroking the back of his head and the curls that were damp with sweat. Sherlock's breathing began to shallow and his body started to relax. Perhaps John could get him to sleep. Maybe?

Sherlock's eyes were closed. If he wasn't asleep he was at least resting. John smiled and looked out of the window at the inky sky which was now bruising with the new day. One of those moments that was perfect. He felt his own eyelids getting heavier, as the rhythm of Sherlock's breathing lulled him to sleep.

He was snapped back out of his warm cocoon of perfection by the intrusive bleeping of his laptop. Or maybe Sherlock's laptop. Or at least someone's laptop, signalling an incoming email. Sherlock had sprung up from his prone position, so not asleep then.

"John you need to look at this." Sherlock's face wore a serious scowl. "It's from Mycroft.

John stared at the screen. The picture that accompanied the email. The pale face and glittering dead eyes smirking at the CCTV camera. John didn't know what was more disturbing. The fact that the CCTV was taken from Jonathan's apartment block, because frankly that poor lad had been through enough in John's opinion. The fact that Mycroft had everyone under surveillance. Or the fact that as he had looked up at the camera, obviously aware of who was watching, the pale faced man had said something. Clearly and deliberately so that anyone viewing could lip read. Just two words.

"Burn You."


	130. Something Suspicious

Jonathan had thought his life was improving. Work was better now the embarrassing facts of his slight crush on his boss were out in the open. Now he wasn't in constant dread of his father's disapproval. Now he was getting chatted up by strangers. Right up to the moment that an armed response unit, accompanying Mycroft Holmes, kicked the door of his apartment down. Of course it could only possibly be worse if he was naked. And then he realised he was.

"Is the building secure?"

"Yes Sir."

"Moriarty?"

"No Sir."

"Well find him." Mycroft looked down at Jonathan's confused face. What had Marcus said? Just as Mycroft had left the house? _Be gentle with him. _Mycroft softened his expression.

"What's going on Sir?" Jonathan didn't like to move but was scanning the room for the nearest available pair of pants. Mycroft handed him a dressing gown that was hanging on the back of the door.

"We have reason to believe that a notorious criminal was in the building tonight. Watching you."

"Me? Why would anyone be watching me?"

"I'm afraid we know very little at the moment. I suspect it was done to provoke a reaction. Have you noticed anything suspicious?"

Jonathan thought. Apart from the chatting up in the corridor there was nothing. And how sad would Mycroft think he was if he told him about that? Jonathan wasn't quite over his crush just yet.

"No Sir." The basement corridor was one of the few in the building that didn't have surveillance cameras.

"Good Morning Mr Brook." A chorus of voices in various stages of puberty warbled as he walked in to class.

"Good morning boys!" And then Richard Brook, who was by far and away the most popular teacher at the school, began to set the class to work. A collective groan filled the air as he wrote the equation on the board. "Now this should take you twenty five minutes. No longer. Off you go."

Richard sipped his coffee and watched as nineteen heads bowed to the task. It really was the perfect cover. But there was a slight nagging at the back of his head. Jonathan Denborough had the most beautiful eyes. Bright green. Set in that innocent face. No doubt one day he would be handsome, but at the moment he was still boyish and cute. Richard Brook really liked Jonathan. He thought about asking him out for a drink some time.

That was why Jonathan was still alive. That was why the knife had remained hidden. Oh he'd got close enough to do it. But when he'd looked into those beautiful green eyes, Richard Brook had stayed James Moriarty's hand.

Still there were others. Other ways to get to the Holmes boys.

John's hand was on his gun. He scanned the corridor whilst Sherlock lay on the floor. John Watson was taking no chances. If Moriarty appeared he would shoot him in the head and then let Mycroft sort it out.

"Right here John." Sherlock pointed to an area of the carpet that looked exactly the same as the rest of it. "The floor is damp. Two sets of footprints. Two people stood here long enough to soak the carpet through."

"Sherlock, this is the corridor outside the pool. You'd expect the carpet to be wet. Maybe they were waiting for the lift?" As if on cue the lift doors slid open.

"Only one person got into the lift." Sherlock was laying on the floor of the lift now. John stuck his foot in the door to stop it shutting. "Size 8, under-pronator. That would be Jonathan. I observed the other day that those expensive shoes of his have a reinforcement on the outside of the heel to stop them wearing down."

"And the other?"

"That way. Towards the service exit. Or the sub- basement."

John tightened the grip on his gun.

"Let's see where he went then."


	131. Trapped

The sub basement of the apartment block had originally been designed as an air raid shelter. The post war rebuild of London had seen several new buildings spring up and sadly, by that point everyone knew that there was no such thing as a war to end all wars. It had seemed a sensible precaution at the time. Of course now, with the building retrofitted with all modern conveniences, and the sad knowledge that if the bombs came, when they came, concrete and steel would afford little protection, the sub basement was a junk room. A relic of a forgotten era.

Or at least it should have been.

John's senses were needling him. The ones he was too embarrassed to tell Sherlock about. The ones honed through nights of sitting in the darkness and the heat waiting for the helicopters to bring in the wounded. The ones that hadn't called him Funsize used to call him Radar. And he was getting the same feeling now, from this room.

The single neon tube flickered on and off. Like the previous days lightning. The room smelled of damp and of something faintly chemical. There was a computer, a brand new Macbook, sitting on an old table. Completely at odds with the empty room. Sherlock was of course drawn to it. Reeled in like a carp with a hook in its mouth. And John knew.

"Sherlock, don't move!" But it was too late. John heard the click. The trigger device. A trip wire. He tensed, wondering if he could manage to throw himself between Sherlock and the blast that was coming.

The blast that never came. The only noise was the ringing echo around the room as the heavy steel door slammed shut. They were trapped. It was fine. Mycroft's team were upstairs. They would find them. It was all fine.

The computer blinked on in the darkness. The neon tube had finally stopped its flickering and expired. On the screen the apple logo bounced happily about. Only there was something wrong with it. The logo continued its bouncing and spun round. If they hadn't been trapped John supposed he might have given a tiny round of applause for the cleverness of it. It looked like the Apple Logo. But it wasn't. The Apple Logo did not have I.O.U on it.

"Hello Sherlock." The computer was talking to them now. With Moriarty's voice "So you fell into my little trap. I was hoping you would. Are you all on your own? Or is your little faithful puppy dog with you?" John sensed this meant him. "If he is. I hope he has his gun. You have enough air in this room for one person to survive for four hours. Or two people for...well I'll let you work it out. I know how much you love puzzles. But of course that wouldn't be any fun. So let's up the stakes a little."

Somewhere above them there was a dull crack, and the room was filled with the sound of slow running water.

"The noise you can hear is the sound of the swimming pool above slowly draining into this room. But it wouldn't be fair if I didn't give you a chance. If you can enter the correct four digit code to unlock the computer, the water stops. Get it wrong and the water comes in faster. You've got three chances."

The screen flickered and then flashed up a white screen: **I AM - - - - LOCKED**

"Great. What do we do now?" There was already half an inch of water on the floor.

"Please John. A four digit code. What is this? Primary school?" Sherlock sneered at the computer screen.

"I've got no phone signal. It must be all the steel. What about you?"

"Phone's at home. People keep ringing me on it."

"Brilliant." The water was an inch deep. "The unbreakable, works anywhere, under any circumstances phone your brother got you is at home?"

"Oh please John." Sherlock was typing a code into the computer. He hit enter. The water began to pour in more rapidly and the computer began laughing.

"Oh for God's sake!" The water was now at John's ankles.

"What?" Sherlock was outraged. "It has to be **1 8 9 5**. It's always **1 8 9 5**!"

"Move away from that computer. Or I swear I will shoot you. Let's just hold on and Mycroft will find us."

"Why would Mycroft find us?"

"Well, when he realises we're not in the basement he'll check the CCTV and find out where we went?" But John was beginning to get a horrible feeling, not entirely connected to the water lapping against his knees. "Don't tell me Mycroft doesn't know we're here."

"All right."

"All right what?"

"You told me not to tell you."

"Sherlock. We are in a room filling with water. Even if we stop it filling with water we don't have enough air. And now you are telling me that your brother doesn't know we are here. Where does he think we are?"

"He told me to stay at Baker Street. He's always telling me what to do."

"Yes. And there's a reason for that. It's because you are a total idiot." The water was over John's knees. John pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans and checked it over.

"What are you doing John?"

"I really don't want to drown."


	132. John is Rather Brilliant

The water had reached John's belly button and was making slow progress towards his nipples, Sherlock sat, legs crossed, on the table, the only piece of high ground, trying to keep the laptop away from the rising waters. His brow was furrowed and John was feeling suddenly very alone. There was only room for one on the table. There was only room for one in the mind palace. John checked his phone once more, desperately hoping for a signal upgrade. Nothing. The water continued to rise, an assortment of detritus from the floor of the storeroom boating around on the top of it like a dirty cappuccino.

"Of course!" Sherlock suddenly sprang back to life. John nearly lost his footing. "He even told us the answer. _I hope you have your puppy dog with you_."

"Oi?"

"Sorry. I was trying to look at this logically, but of course Moriarty isn't logical. He's jealous. Almost childishly so. No wonder I couldn't work out the code straight away. He's jealous of you and me. Of us." Sherlock began to type.

"Please make this the right code Sherlock. Please." The water had reached John's armpits.

"Moriarty is a child John. An overgrown child." The computer screen flickered. It now read

**I AM JOHN ****LOCKED.**

Sherlock pressed the enter key. For a second nothing happened. And then the water began to pour in torrents and the laptop resumed its high pitched mockery.

"Oh that is just not fair!" Sherlock, in a fit of temper, hurled the laptop away. It sploshed into the water before sinking.

In the dim light of the storeroom Sherlock knew John was looking at him.

"I told you about making people in to heroes John."

"Don't. Just don't. If I were you I would be very quiet right now." Even in the half light Sherlock knew John was slowly turning purple with ill suppressed rage.

"I thought it would be JOHN. I thought he was being funny. How I get into trouble and you always save me. I thought it was a childish joke. We're going to die. I've killed us."

"We are so not going to die. And I'll tell you why. Because you are Sherlock Holmes the World's only consulting detective. And I am Doctor John Watson and I am annoyed and I've got a gun. Now what does Moriarty want? What does he most want?"

"He wants to be better than me."

"Yes. What else?"

"This is all some great game to him. And he wants to win."

"And how does he win?"

"By killing me. Us. He wants me dead."

"But just having you dead is no fun. He wants you to admit that he's better. He wants acknowledgement. That's it." John ducked under the water, hoping, just hoping that his theory would be correct.

Sure enough, the laptop was still on. An eerie light under the green water. The screen still blinking it's question. **I AM - LOCKED. **It was ironic, John thought, because if he was wrong it hardly mattered. He kicked his legs so he was a little closer to the computer and typed. Four letters. **DEAD**

When he surfaced there was about a foot remaining between the water and the ceiling. But the water wasn't getting any higher.

"How did you do that John?"

"Easy. There's a lot to be said for the boring and the mundane." John kicked his legs. He knew they would not be able to tread water indefinitely. And he knew that their air supply was limited. Perhaps all he'd done was prolong their suffering? Perhaps that was all John ever did? But while there was life there was hope.

"John. That was brilliant!" Sherlock smiled damply. "Now we just need to work out how to get that door open."

Five minutes and some underwater investigations later Sherlock concluded that the door could not be opened from the inside. And the vent that had allowed the water in was too narrow, even for Sherlock to squeeze through. And as gratifying as shooting things was they couldn't shoot the lock off the door because, well, there wasn't one.

Silence. In the gloom Sherlock and John looked at one another.

"What do we do now? Any ideas?" John was getting tired.

"There's one thing we haven't tried." Sherlock took a deep breath and then roared at the top of his lungs "MYCROFT!"


	133. Mycroft's Sixth Sense

**A/N Some formatting for the previous chapter did not upload. If it didn't make sense please go back and reread it as i have fixed the problem and the code is now revealed! Apologies.**

Until the age of seven and a quarter, Mycroft had been completely unaware that he was in possession of one particular skill. He had been unaware of that part of his brain and its rather singular function until he had awoken one night to the silence of his bedroom, and had known, without knowing why, that he needed to find Nanny because Sherlock was poorly. It had turned out, after his rather cross nanny had roused herself and checked on the infant detective, that Sherlock had managed to wriggle himself into a face down position and was slowly turning blue. The matter had never been spoken of again. In fact sometimes, Mycroft was a little scared by it, even now, aged 44.

It was this awareness of Sherlock, which Nicholas had on occasion referred to as "a disruption in the force" that caused Mycroft to pause as they were about to leave Jonathan's apartment building. Something that made him turn around and go back. Some impossible, irrational sense of impending danger that made him call the surveillance team to establish the whereabouts of his brother. The message came back: They were not at Baker Street.

The water had stopped rising, but Sherlock and John's troubles were far from over. Treading water was using up the Oxygen fast. Sherlock had already calculated they had only minutes left and of course, being Sherlock had not been able to resist telling John exactly how long they had.

"Fourteen minutes?" John's legs were really tired.

"Yes John."

"Fourteen minutes. It sounds like such a short time, but I bet it's going to feel like forever." His head slipped under the water for a moment before he spluttered back to the surface.

"Just hold on John. Mycroft will find us." Sherlock's head was angled back painfully against the ceiling.

"Mycroft that doesn't even know where we are?"

"He will find us. He always finds me. That's what he does." A moment of silence followed. John had seen it before, men facing their own deaths who suddenly put their faith in a higher power to save them. It was almost funny. How in his last minutes Sherlock was praying, not to God, but to the big brother the world thought he hated. John wondered if Mycroft knew. John's hand closed around his revolver.

"What are you doing John?"

"Giving Mycroft more time to find you." John steadied himself in the water.

Mycroft stared at the door. He could smell the faint tang of chlorine. Someone, with almost childish theatricality had scrawled all over the door with red crayon. A skull and crossbones. The door said **I AM DEAD LOCKED. **There was no handle, no lock, no key. No sound from within. But Mycroft knew.

On the wall next to the door there was a brand new key card entry unit.

"Jonathan, give me your keys." Mycroft swiped the key card.

John Watson looked at the dimly lit horror on Sherlock's face. He closed his eyes and put the gun into his mouth.

And everything seemed to explode.

In the many versions of the afterlife John had entertained in idle moments, none of them had contained a soaking wet Mycroft Holmes looking like the wrath of the almighty. Although in his slightly dazed state John had to admit that Wet-look Mycroft wasn't half bad. Then he shook his head. His ears were ringing and waterlogged. Everywhere felt bruised.

Sherlock had found himself being dragged roughly to his feet by his brother. Mycroft would no doubt be furious that his favourite suit had just been ruined and that he was currently drenched in filthy swimming pool water. And Sherlock supposed that was his fault. As was nearly getting himself and John killed. Mycroft had paused just long enough to kiss his brother on the forehead before he had unleashed his first salvo on the subject of Sherlock's idiocy. Alternately shaking him and hugging him.

"Mycroft. No one is safe here. Moriarty. He will kill someone. I don't think he really cares who." Sherlock looked significantly at Jonathan Denborough, also soaking wet and currently co-ordinating a specialist bomb squad down the corridor.

"Right. I'll increase the surveillance on Baker Street. " Mycroft sent a brief message on his phone. "An armed response unit is on its way to secure the premises and Mrs Hudson. And we'll move Jonathan to a safe house."

"You really have somewhere that safe?" Sherlock was trying to concentrate but his right ear was full of water and he was finding the way Mycroft was still hugging him rather distracting.

"Yes I do. Now I suggest you and Doctor Watson go home. And stay there."

"Yes Mycroft. Thank you." Sherlock and John squelched up the corridor and out of the building on rubbery legs to a waiting car. Not the usual car. This one was beefier. Armoured. If Moriarty meant business, so did Mycroft.

Mycroft watched them go. And then turned his attention to Jonathan. A safe house. He dialled the number.

"Stephen Gray."

"Hello Stephen. Mycroft Holmes. I need a safe house for one of my staff." On the other end of the line, Mycroft could hear the smile.


	134. Safe Houses

Jonathan Denborough was still soaked. He had been given five minutes to pack whilst an armed guard stood by and had no time to change. He was now very aware that he was dripping onto the elegantly whitewashed floor of the mews house in Ennismore Gardens. He shivered slightly as the front door closed and he was left alone with Stephen Gray. The silence was awkward.

"Would you like to change out of those wet clothes? I'll show you your room." Stephen led the way up the stairs. Jonathan tried not to get water over everything. Growing up at Denborough Hall with its faded splendour, Jonathan was used to being in big houses, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and high society. But there was something about Stephen's house that was different. It had an understated opulence about it. Something that made Jonathan feel like a vandal for leaving wet footprints on the floor.

"Don't worry about the carpets. They're easily cleaned." Stephen smiled. "You just get changed and I'll make us some breakfast." The door closed and rather suddenly Jonathan felt like running after Stephen and asking him to stay with him. But of course that was hardly appropriate.

Mrs Hudson appeared to be enjoying herself immensely, in spite of the fact she had been rudely awakened by an armed response unit securing the building. They had been there for just over an hour and she already knew all of them by name and how they took their tea. She was just making the rounds with a plate of fruit cake when Mycroft arrived with Sherlock and John.

"Will you look at the state of you all!" She shrieked. All three men were still damp and wrinkled. Mrs Hudson began talking about hot baths and dry clothes and generally fussing. And if the armed response unit were amused by the sight of Mycroft Holmes losing an argument with an old lady over him catching his death if he didn't change this instant, they hid it well. Twenty minutes later she had them all sitting down with mugs of tea and beans on toast. John couldn't help but notice she seemed to have given Mycroft the most toast.

"I'm very sorry about all this Mrs Hudson. But I'm not taking any chances with James Moriarty. He's already tried to kill Sherlock and Doctor Watson, in fact if it wasn't for John's rather timely piece of puzzle solving, he probably would have done." Mrs Hudson added another piece of toast to John's plate.

"Don't you worry about it my darling." She patted Mycroft's shoulder. He blushed at being addressed thus. "I suppose it's quite exciting really. What does this Moriarty person want anyway?"

"I'm not entirely sure he wants anything. He just likes to hurt people. And he seems to have decided to go after Sherlock."

"He sounds like a nasty piece of work that needs a damn good smacking if you ask me."

"The thought had occurred to me. Now if you will excuse me." Mycroft stood to leave.

"You just make sure you change into some dry clothes young man. It will do you no good running around the Palace of Westminster with wet pants!"

"Yes Mrs Hudson." Mycroft knew there was no point in arguing. And he knew dry clothes would be waiting for him at his office. Sherlock made no comment.

In fact Sherlock had said very little. Until the door of 221B was closed and John and him were alone.

"John. I think we need to talk."

Jonathan was fast asleep on Stephen's sofa. Stephen had contemplated carrying the exhausted young man to bed, but had then decided he looked comfortable enough. Stephen had bought the sofa specifically because it allowed him to stretch out full length on it, so Jonathan had plenty of room. Besides, Stephen could keep a much better eye on him where he was. He covered Jonathan over with a blanket and then sat down in the armchair opposite, a gun in one hand and a pink gin in the other. After all, Mycroft wanted this young man kept safe.


	135. Promises

Stephen Gray looked at the sleeping figure on his sofa. Jonathan looked far younger than his twenty nine years. The bottom of his t-shirt had rucked up to reveal a strip of pale skin, and the blanket had slipped down. It was a rather lovely picture. Stephen sighed. Obviously the last thing Jonathan needed at that time was some lecherous old man perving over him. And Stephen did feel old. He wondered how that had happened. He was only forty three. And yet somehow he felt ancient.

Jonathan turned in his sleep, raising one arm across his face as though he was trying to protect himself from an unseen attacker. Stephen had been briefed on Jonathan's family history. It had made his blood boil and filled him with a desire to go and find Jonathan's father and beat the living daylights out of him. Of course, Mycroft Holmes, bless him, had already seen to it. But still, there was nothing quite like the personal touch. Stephen generally didn't like getting physical, and most people made the mistake of assuming that was because he was just a big teddy bear. And really they could not have been more wrong.

Jonathan sat bolt upright, his eyes filled with terror as he tried to shake himself awake, his breathing uncertain.

"Hey. Are you all right?" Stephen left his chair and kneeled down by the sofa, tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Jonathan was still not quite fully awake. Not for the first time, Stephen noticed the emerald green eyes and the long coppery-blond lashes.

"Nothing to be sorry about. Can I get you anything?" Stephen placed a comforting hand on Jonathan's shoulder, and strangely he felt the younger man relax into his touch.

"No I'm fine. Will you stay here with me?"

"Yes of course. I won't leave you."

"Thank you." And for the first time since his arrival, Jonathan smiled.

Xx

John and Sherlock sat opposite each other in silence. John took a sip of his tea and drew his dressing gown a little tighter around him. Sherlock continued to say nothing. An hour passed before finally he spoke.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you leave me? Why would you do that? You said you never would. But you were going to."

"Yes." The offending revolver, minus bullets, was now drying out on the coffee table

"You would have killed yourself."

"Yes I would have done."

"I...no...I...that makes no sense John." John sensed Sherlock was on the verge of meltdown.

"Yes it does. I said I would never leave you. Yes I did. But I think we both know that's a promise that one day will have to be broken." John paused. Outside the sun was shining and pushing fingers of light into the room. "But I also said I would give you everything I had, without question. And the only thing I thought I had left back there was fourteen minutes. It doesn't sound like much, but it was everything I had."

"And you were going to give them to me? Those fourteen minutes."

"Yes. Because I thought I could give you more time. And give Mycroft more time. And you could get out of there. You would have found a way. I know you would have done. And I would have at least been able to keep one promise to you."

"But you would have been dead."

"Sherlock, if you don't have faith there are far worse things than dying. But I do. I believe. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. To the very end."

The silence continued for a while longer. Finally broken by Sherlock standing.

"Promise me you will never do that again John."

"I promise."

"Now let's go and stop Moriarty."

Xx

Richard Brook had just finished taking his third class of the day. The youngest boys in the school. Most of them entirely disinterested in maths. The lunch bell went and he watched as the boys all aged seven or eight, packed up their books and filed in a disorderly manner out of the classroom. His main focus however, was on one small boy at the back of the class. One of his star pupils in fact, probably borderline genius, certainly way above average. The boy was currently sucking on an inhaler. Strange how sometimes the mind compensated for the bodies inadequacies. Shame really.

"Are you all right Nicholas?"

"Yes Mr Brook." The boy wheezed a little as he spoke.

"Well run along now. You don't want to miss lunch do you?"

"No sir." He picked up his bag and hurried after his schoolmates, unaware of the cruel smile that followed him out of the classroom.


	136. Marcus and Nicky Observe

Marcus had seen Mycroft agitated before. He had seen him spitting with frustration at the stupidity of some politician or other. He had witnessed the late nights, the sleepless nights, the bone aching tiredness as some crisis or other prevented Mycroft from getting any sleep. He had seen Mycroft wound up beyond measure. He had seen him making impossible decisions that solved one problem only to create two more. He thought he had seen it all. Until now.

But nothing had quite prepared the ex-Navy Surgeon for this version of Mycroft. The Mycroft that emerged when his family and friends were threatened.

Marcus was quite sure Mycroft was tired. He could tell by the way he rolled his head from side to side as he sat at his desk. He could tell by the way he pinched the bridge of his nose as he scrutinised the computer screen. And Marcus could tell just how angry Mycroft was by the flush of colour tracing up the back of his neck. And Marcus really wished he could do something more useful than simply watch.

After the briefest of showers and a change of clothes, Mycroft had taken up residence in the study, where he was currently seated reviewing CCTV footage with a look of disgust on his face. Marcus had gathered the general impression that once this James Moriarty character was apprehended he was going to be wiped off the face of the earth.

Every so often a progress report would be brought in by one of the numerous men in black that seemed to be occupying various parts of the house. All of them were armed. It was rather like being under house arrest. No. It was exactly like being under house arrest.

Marcus watched Mycroft shove another handful of Smarties into his mouth. Later on the sugar high would turn into a crash that would give him a headache and shorten his temper. For such a clever man Mycroft seemed blissfully unaware of his body's nutritional needs. Marcus sighed and decided the best thing he could do to help was go to the kitchen and make Mycroft a sandwich.

Xx

Nicky was rather excited to be riding in Uncle Mycroft's car. Although this wasn't the usual car. This was the special one with the reinforced floor. Nicky knew this because he had to be lifted up in order to get in. It was six inches higher than the other one.

The man who lifted him up was called Tim. Tim's wife had just had a new baby and Mrs Tim was poorly. Nicky knew this because Tim looked tired. And he had baby formula on the lapel of his jacket. And he had eaten a takeaway bacon sandwich for breakfast, there was a little blob of ketchup on his shirt cuff. Tim usually had Weetabix. And Tim smelt of hospitals. But he wasn't poorly himself. So it must be his wife and Tim was looking after the baby. He made a mental note to make Mrs Tim a get well card.

Nicky slid onto the back seat of the car, perfectly delighted to have been taken out of his PE lesson by secret service. He knew all the other boys would be talking about it. It was one of those moments that gave you cool currency as a small boy. But he was also a little worried. If mummy was all right. And Uncle Mycroft. And Marcus, because he couldn't run away as fast as everyone else because of his leg. And John and Sherlock, although he supposed Sherlock would be all right because John would look after him. Although who looked after John he wasn't quite sure. Perhaps the nice lady who made the Jam Tarts. Mrs Hudson.

And then there was the other thing he wasn't sure about. Uncle Mycroft had always said that if anything bothered him he was to say so. But it seemed silly when something serious was obviously going on. There was something about Mr Brook that bothered Nicky. Mr Brook wasn't quite right. Mr Brook sometimes didn't seem quite real. He didn't seem to be as nice as he pretended. And Nicky had noticed that the hairs on his hand were burnt this morning, when he handed out the maths homework. Like Jonathan's were some times when he'd been firing his gun. Only what was a maths teacher doing with a gun?

The car pulled up in front of Mycroft's house and Tim helped Nicky out of the back. He clutched hold of his school bag. The homework book with Mr Brook's finger prints on it, carefully wrapped up inside it. Uncle Mycroft did say anything. And Uncle Mycroft always meant what he said.


	137. Sandwich

Marcus Hatch was under the scrutiny of two pairs of eyes as he made Mycroft's sandwich. One belonged to Mycroft's elderly Giraffe, the other fizzy green pair belonged to Nicky, who was perched on the work top out of harm's way. Nicky was rather small for his age and could easily have passed for six rather than nearly eight. Both sets of eyes watched Marcus's every move with an unnerving intensity.

"Uncle Mycroft doesn't like mayonnaise." Nicky said it quietly.

"Doesn't he?" Marcus put the jar down, a little embarrassed that a small boy knew his boyfriend's sandwich preferences better than he did.

"No. He likes Heinz Salad cream and whole grain mustard. But not together."

"And what's your favourite sandwich?"

"I like Jam and Banana. But Mummy says they are messy, so I'm not allowed them at home."

"But Uncle Mycroft let's you have them here?" Marcus was beginning to see a pattern developing. A pattern involving a certain small boy wrapping a certain government official around his little finger. Marcus couldn't say he was surprised. Nicky was cute. And he was very smart. And polite and quiet, when he wasn't playing hungry hippos. Marcus could very easily imagine Nicky being the Son and heir Mycroft should have had. Nicky fixed him with his strangely intense stare. Marcus was reminded immediately of Sherlock.

"He likes them too. Can I take Uncle Mycroft's sandwich up to him?" Nicky had hopped down on to the floor, leaving the Giraffe on the grey marble work top. "Because your leg's hurting. You should sit down."

"Well that's very kind of you. How do you know my leg's hurting?"

"By the way you're standing. Sorry." The boy blushed and looked at the floor. "Mummy says I shouldn't say things like that because people get upset."

"And what does Uncle Mycroft say?" Marcus was very amused by the obvious conflict going on in the tiny boy's head.

"He says details are very important and I shouldn't be embarrassed about noticing things."

"Well he's right. Otherwise people end up with mayonnaise in their sandwiches when they don't like it." Marcus handed the plate to Nicky. "Can you manage?"

"Yes." Nicky confidently took the plate.

Xx

Mycroft Holmes continued to watch the CCTV footage, wondering just how James Moriarty had managed to get quite so close. How had Mycroft allowed it? He supposed really it was vanity. What he was really thinking, what Sherlock was really thinking was how, even for a moment, had James Moriarty managed to be cleverer than them? And that made him mad. Angry. His head hurt. He shouldn't have eaten so much chocolate. The door of his office was opened with a confident but small knock.

"Uncle Mycroft? I've bought you a sandwich. Marcus made it for you." Nicky put the plate down on the desk. He could tell Uncle Mycroft was angry, because his ears were very red. But he wasn't angry at him, he was angry at someone else. Mycroft half smiled at Nicky and hoisted him up on to his lap for a hug. Nicky liked Uncle Mycroft's hugs now Marcus had got him eating sandwiches. They were much less bony than before.

And then he saw the computer screen.

"Uncle Mikey? Why have you got a picture of Mr Brook on your computer?" Nicky looked puzzled. Mycroft's ears weren't red any more.


	138. Bad Medicine

Nicky knew it wasn't going to be good, when despite the arrival of his Mummy, he was still deposited on the huge sofa in front of the television with a bowl of ice cream and told not to leave the room unless one of the black suited men from Secret Service (Alan or Rick) was with him. And Mummy hadn't said a word. Normally she said a great deal about him being allowed quite so much sugar when he was at Mycroft's. Not that he was complaining. He'd not seen "Diamonds are Forever" before. And his head had started to go numb and tingly half way down the bowl. He snuggled down on the sofa with Wordsworth, covering them both carefully with his fluffy red blanket and continued to eat his ice cream.

"How has this happened?" Mycroft was spitting down the phone at someone who was likely to be unemployed or dead by the same time tomorrow. "Every teacher at that school was supposed to be fully checked" There was a mumbled excuse. "I don't care. Send me the files. All of the files."

Richard Brook was not at the school. He could not be found.

Mycroft slammed the receiver down so hard it bounced back out of the cradle. Marcus looked on disapprovingly from the doorway.

"Mycroft, calm down. It won't do your blood pressure any good."

"Bugger my blood pressure!"

"I had no idea that was even an option." Sherlock drawled from the corridor.

"What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay at Baker Street!"

"Yes. But it was boring." Sherlock smiled sweetly. Mycroft glared. Marcus decided to get out of the firing line.

"Sherlock I do not have time for your childish tantrums. James Moriarty is dangerous. And clever. And this is not a game."

"Yes it is. And there's a flaw in his game plan. He hasn't reckoned on dealing with the combined minds of both of us. Now, brother mine. Let's win." Sherlock sat at the desk next to Mycroft and studied the screen.

Xx

John Watson was busying himself with making tea, when Anthea, having checked up on Nicky made her way into the Kitchen. The kitchen seemed to be seeing rather more traffic these days, what with Marcus finally getting Mycroft off of his ridiculous and unnecessary diet and the increased amount of entertaining going on these days.

"Hi Anthea? Is it Anthea today?"

"It's as good a name as any."

"How's Nicky doing?"

"He's seven and a half. This is possibly the greatest thing that has ever happened to him. He has ice cream, James Bond and two men with guns guarding him. And he got out of school." She smiled and busied herself sorting out Nicky's medication, automatically opening the packets and bottles and putting the correct quantities into a bowl.

"That's a lot of meds to keep track of."

"Yes. They keep changing them as well, just to keep me on my toes. Here you go. Last week these were blue. This week they're red." She held out her hand to display four bright red tablets.

"Is that a new prescription?"

"I collected it from the pharmacy on the way over. John?" John had taken one of the tablets from her outstretched hand and was looking at it with concern.

"Whatever you do don't give Nicky any of that stuff. I need to go and see Mycroft." John ran out of the kitchen and Anthea heard his feet thundering down the corridor. She peered down at the tablets in her hand. Small, round, red pills with tiny white writing on it. Three letters. **IOU**.


	139. Ice Cream

Stephen Gray stretched his arms a little and moved his bulk in the armchair he was currently residing in. On the sofa Jonathan Denborough was still sleeping peacefully, his hair, damp from his earlier shower had dried out in to an enchantingly untidy mess of curls, pale strawberry , darker underneath. He had been asleep for nine hours.

Stephen cast his mind back to Oxford. To Robert. It had been rather foolish to imagine that Robert would have ever looked at him twice. Robert, who had it not been for his gifts in the chemistry lab would have been playing professional soccer for Manchester City. But Stephen couldn't help but think about it sometimes.

Of course there had been others. Down the years. A lot of others. One night stands. Two week holiday romances. Even a couple of times when things had lasted for nearly a month. But eventually they had all ended the same way. And Stephen had kind of given up on the whole idea. Unfortunately he had never given up on the memory of Robert.

He was broken from his thoughts by the doorbell ringing. Instinctively his hand gripped around the gun. He was taking no chances. On the sofa, Jonathan stirred, quickly sitting bolt upright, fully awake. It seemed Mycroft Holmes had trained him well.

"Are you expecting anyone? Deliveries or anything?"

"No?"

"And Mr Holmes hasn't rung to say he's sending someone?"

"No."

"Right. Do you have an Intercom for the door?"

"Yes."

"I guess I don't need to tell you what the procedure is? " The doorbell chimed again. Jonathan retrieved his own gun from the holster slung on the back of the sofa. He clicked off the safety. "You answer the door. I've got your back." The way Jonathan smiled shyly when he said that really made Stephen wish they were talking about something else.

Xx

Nicky had been happily watching James Bond kicking cats at Blofeld when it seemed every grownup in the house had burst into the television room. Nicky was now being subjected to the attentions of not one, but two Doctors whilst his mother fussed and outside in the corridor Uncle Mycroft threatened someone with whatever evisceration was. Nicky thought it sounded quite nasty, and probably involved something sticky, perhaps treacle, as well as sharp pointy things.

The stethoscope was cold against his chest. He was used to that. Although he was getting a little worried as no one was telling him what was going on. And maybe that meant he was ill again. Which wouldn't be good because Uncle Mycroft had enough to deal with. And Mummy would be upset because he was supposed to be getting better. And he wished he hadn't eaten quite so much Ice cream as his head was quite numb.

"Do you feel okay Nicky?" John Watson was asking him gently.

"Yes I'm fine!" Which was a lie, because he was feeling a little bit frightened.

"Why is he slurring his words like that?" Marcus Hatch shone a bright light into the boy's eyes.

"I don't know. His temperature's fine, heart rate's normal, reflexes are good."

"Pupil reaction is normal." Nicky didn't like it when grownups talked about him as though he wasn't there.

"He's got brain freeze!" Sherlock stood in the doorway. "Unless the Ice cream is poisoned?"

Nicky looked down at the half eaten bowl of chocolate and mint ice cream. Everyone was looking at him. He felt rather ill.

"Why would Moriarty poison both the ice cream and the medicine?" The question hung in the air awaiting an answer.

"The ice cream is not poisoned Sherlock!" Mycroft had entered the room. Deathly pale, eyeing Nicky with concern.

"And how would you know that brother dear? Oh wait. How foolish of me. Ice Cream. You ate the rest of it? So if it was poisoned you'd be ill or dead as well! And he hasn't taken any of the medicine that's been tampered with?"

"No." Anthea placed a worried hand on her son's forehead.

"Then I think it is safe to assume the child is fine." Sherlock smiled smugly down at Nicky.

"I feel sick!" Nicky was determined not to cry, because that would make Mummy cry. Mycroft immediately swooped down and picked him up. Nicky buried his face in his "Uncle's" long neck, where no one but he and Mycroft would know about his tears.

"It's all right my darling boy; no one is going to hurt you." Mycroft hugged him tightly. "I think this young man needs to get some rest."

There was a collective sigh of relief. John immediately helped Anthea to sit down. She looked about ready to collapse.

"I really hate just sitting around waiting for this lunatic to pick somebody off." Marcus threw a cushion.

"If I am correct. I don't think we shall have to wait much longer." Sherlock picked up Wordsworth from the sofa and followed Mycroft.


	140. Bedtime, Bombs and Chicken Pasta

Sherlock looked on from the doorway as his brother supervised Nicky changing into pyjamas with cartoon dinosaurs on them. He caught sight of the boy's small body, already covered in so many scars from so many operations. Something in Nicky's tired but determined expression reminded him of John Watson. It was strange how everyone around him seemed to be an echo of someone else. He watched as Mycroft gently tucked the boy in, a fleeting memory in the palace corridors of when Mycroft had done that for him, what seemed like another lifetime ago. Mycroft placed a kiss on Nicky's forehead and switched on a gently glowing nightlight which projected stars all over the room. Nicky looked thoughtfully at Sherlock, who realised he was still holding on to the Giraffe. He handed Wordsworth over, and Nicky placed him carefully on the pillow. Mycroft was busy giving very specific instructions to the agent who was on duty outside the bedroom door.

"Sherlock?" Nicky gave a conspiratorial whisper.

"Yes?" He was not used to having conversations with children.

"He loves you the most. He worries about you all the time."

"Who?"

"Uncle Mycroft. He doesn't think anyone knows."

"And how do you know this?"

"I...I just know. I know things. They are in my head, but sometimes I don't know how they got there. And he still misses the other Nicholas. He's better now Marcus is here. But he still cries sometimes. In the room upstairs, when he thinks no one is around."

"And why are you telling me this?" Sherlock was beginning to find the whole conversation rather unnerving, as he looked into eyes far older and wiser than was reasonable.

"I don't know why. Are you going to get Mr Brook?"

"Yes."

"He's not a very good maths teacher. Be careful." Nicky snuggled down into his duvet and Sherlock left the room, all the while aware of the boy's eyes watching him from the bed.

Xx

James Moriarty sat in his car. He was waiting. Waiting for all the fuss to die down at the apartment block. The place was swarming with secret service and Home Office Forensics. Mycroft Holmes really had as much of a flair for the dramatic as his little brother. Moriarty assumed that by now the cute little assistant would have been moved somewhere safer. He also assumed that Sherlock and John hadn't drowned, mores the pity. Still it would have been boring if they had just drowned first time. And he supposed now he would have to give up the teaching job. Shame as he was curious to know how the end of year exams had gone. The only thing that had given him a little quirk of guilt was the medicine. It wasn't actually poison or anything. Just chalk. So if they didn't notice, then they'd just be giving the kid nothing instead of the proper medicine. That would raise his heart rate dangerously high and distract everyone. Probably wouldn't kill him. Probably.

Moriarty turned to the man sat in the passenger seat as the car drove through Piccadilly Circus.

"Get out. Stand over there. And don't move or you know what happens!" The man nodded. His eyes filled with terror as he slid out of the car. No one really paid any attention to him. Strange as it was a warm day and the man was wearing a bulky coat, done up. But then everyone was so concerned with their own little worlds they never noticed anything else. Never noticed that someone was strapped to enough explosives to blow themselves and everything within twenty yards to pieces. That was how you got away with it. Every time. Moriarty switched on the hands free in the car and removed the mask he had been wearing.

"Right. Dial the number. And when they answer, repeat exactly what I say. If you don't I will turn you in to dog meat and feed you to the Corgis at Buckingham Palace."

Xx

Stephen Gray blew out a long breath of relief as he closed the door firmly and bolted it shut once more. The postman had been rather surprised at the serious expression on Mr Gray's face. Not as surprised as he would have been had he realised Jonathan had got a gun pointing at his knee cap. A package too large to fit in the letter box. A consignment of exotic DVD's from Amazon. It had completely slipped Stephen's mind in all the excitement that they were due for delivery.

He left the package unopened on the table in the hallway.

Jonathan smiled and clicked the safety back on his gun.

"Well what shall we do now?"

"How about something to eat?" Stephen started in the general direction of the kitchen. "Do you like Chicken pasta?"

"Actually it my very favourite." Which was a lie because Jonathan's favourite meal was Pie and Mash, but he so wanted Stephen to smile at him again.

"I'll get cooking then." There was that warm smile again. Jonathan's insides felt slightly odd. The same feeling he used to get whenever Mycroft Holmes was in the room. He smiled back.


	141. Keeping Calm

John Watson had resumed his tea making. He was quite impressed at the well stocked cupboards. Of course everything was from Fortnum and Mason's, although there were a few things from Waitrose sneaking in. Marcus was obviously rather a good influence on Holmes Number One. Especially as John had discovered a cupboard containing a selection of mugs, including one he suspected was customised especially for Mycroft. _"Keep Calm and Run the Country."_

"I don't know how you stay this calm John." Marcus was leant against the door frame.

"Practice I guess. And, well, there's no point in panicking. Doesn't get you anywhere. Are you okay?" John considered Marcus for a moment. This was probably the first time he had faced a situation like this.

"I think so. Not sure."

"Yeah. Me too. It's not like in the forces, where you know when the bombs and bullets are going to come. You know who the enemy is. And you can fight back. This is different. And a lot more difficult."

"I'm not sure if I'm handling this well. And I don't know if I'm any use." Marcus scratched his shoulder thoughtfully.

"That's the trick. You won't be. You will be no use whatsoever until it's all over with. And then you'll be the one he needs." John smiled and handed Marcus a cup of tea in a Natural History Museum mug. "Unless of course you have to shoot someone in the meantime." Marcus half laughed at that and then realised John was being serious.

"I've been in combat John. I've been shot. I've been blown up. But I've never been scared. Not like this. We still don't know what this Moriarty guy is capable of. And the only thing standing between him and the world is Sherlock and Mycroft."

"It will all be fine. Have a little faith."

"Do you?"

"Well I know what Sherlock can do. I've seen it. And I'll let you in to a little secret."John lent forward to whisper. "When God can't save the Queen, they send for Mycroft."

Xx

Jonathan's second helping of rather delicious chicken pasta was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing. He smiled an apology at Stephen as he checked the caller I.D and then frowned. It was an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Hello Darling." The voice on the other end of the phone was unfamiliar and sounded forced.

"Who is this?"

"Just some idiot I grabbed off the street. Now listen carefully." The voice continued, uncertain as though it was repeating what someone else was saying. In the back ground there was traffic noise. "I am sending some information to your phone. You need to leave wherever you are and deliver the information to Mycroft Holmes in person. Do not tell him you are on your way. If you do this poor bastard is going to be blown up. Along with everyone and everything near him. Do you understand."

"Yes."

"Now if your boss is clever enough then he might manage to stop the explosion in time. Otherwise. Boom!" The voice faltered.

"Okay stay calm. We'll find you."

"Oh no Johnny. "The voice was crying now. "Anyone comes near him and he's dog meat."

"What do you really want?" Jonathan had switched on the satellite tracking on his phone.

"Get Sherlock!" The line went dead.

Jonathan looked up at Stephen's anxious face.

"I have to go."

"Then I'm coming with you."

"No. You can't. It's not safe." Jonathan had a lump in his throat as he spoke. "Can I borrow your car?"

"Keys are on the table in the hallway. Please be careful." He paused. What was there left to lose? "I rather like you."

"I rather like you too." Jonathan went a charming shade of red as he picked up the keys and opened the front door.


	142. Something in the Cellar

Mycroft had said that sending for Mrs Hudson had been a sensible precaution. That way everyone was together and could be kept under the watchful eye of his security. Sherlock had maintained that it was a crafty way of getting fresh cake supplies in to the house. But nevertheless he was grateful when Mrs Hudson arrived safely, clutching a large cake tin and a small tote bag. She handed the bag to John Watson, who peered inside and nodded his thanks. John wouldn't allow Sherlock to see the contents of the bag.

When Jonathan Denborough had shown up, Mycroft had been momentarily furious. He could not understand why everyone seemed to be unable to follow the simplest of instructions. What was so difficult about staying exactly where you were told? But Jonathan's pale face, and the expression that did not change even when Mycroft voiced his displeasure, told him immediately something was wrong. Normally if Mycroft shouted at him, Jonathan would get that look like a puppy that had just been kicked. Jonathan handed over his phone. Mycroft looked at the images three times before giving the phone to Sherlock. Mycroft's face was blank and cold. This was not going to be good.

"Boring!" Sherlock clicked through the pictures on the phone, his face as unimpressed as his brother's.

"There's a guy strapped in to a bomb, somewhere in London and that's boring?" Jonathan, it seemed was reaching the end of his seemingly long fuse. Quite understandable considering everything that had happened to him in the last couple of weeks.

"No. That's quite...not boring?" Sherlock struggled for the acceptable Mot Juste. "The fact that Moriarty is laying down a challenge to us. That's boring. What he's sent is a series of little clues. He thinks he's being clever. He's actually being rather tedious. All we have to work out is where this last photograph was taken."

"My God. Just look at that wallpaper. Really I sometimes think Oscar Wilde had a point." Mycroft stared at the picture. He seemed genuinely offended by the hideousness of the decor. John Watson made a mental note of that for future use. Mrs Hudson had just handed Jonathan a cup of tea and was making the rounds with a plate of Macaroons. She peered at the screen over Mycroft's elbow.

"Mycroft Holmes! There is nothing wrong with my wallpaper! That is my basement flat!" She whisked the plate away before Mycroft could help himself to Macaroons. She seemed more affronted by Mycroft's criticism of her decorating than the fact that a lunatic madman had been taking pictures in her basement. But then she rented a flat to Sherlock Holmes.

"I will send a team in to retrieve whatever he has left there. I assume it will be a clue of some sort. And in the meantime I suggest we get the excellent Inspector LeStrade to send a few of his people to Piccadilly Circus."

"Piccadilly. Of course!" Sherlock echoed his brother. A tiny note of annoyance in his voice that he hadn't got there first.

Xx

Stephen Gray was desperate to find out what was happening. He had wandered around his house. He'd never noticed before how very large it was for one person. Excessively large really. He supposed that was somehow appropriate. And he had found himself in the room Jonathan had used. Jonathan's room? That was the name his mind gave it. Damp clothes neatly placed in a bag. Another bag with a few items of dry clothing, and something else that caught Stephen's eye. Half buried under a shirt, a rather fat teddy bear, showing some signs of distress at the seams. It had one eye missing. Stephen smiled and then felt a new lump in his throat. He really didn't want Jonathan to get hurt.

Xx

"I really didn't expect that." It was Marcus who broke the silence. The team had returned from the basement flat at Baker Street. The place had been empty. All except one thing, left in the middle of the floor, which was now in the middle of Mycroft's dining table.

"Me neither. But I suppose it makes sense." John Watson shook his head.

"It's improbable, but not impossible. I need more data." Sherlock frowned.

Mycroft was already on his phone. Giving orders. Jonathan was the only one who stood there silently. Staring at the empty wine bottle on the table.


	143. Talking to Strangers

"Where's Jonathan?" It was of course John Watson asking the question. The young man had disappeared shortly after Mycroft had sent a team over to Stephen Gray's house to arrest him. All fingers were pointed squarely at Stephen as the traitor in their midst. He knew everyone. He was certainly clever enough. Just the kind of individual James Moriarty would seek out. Information . That was what Stephen dealt in. From his little wine emporium. Mycroft had often wondered how Stephen managed to afford his house and car and all the rest of it. Mycroft was kicking himself for not having a special audit done. Mycroft was mentally berating himself for his arrogance and self congratulation on getting Stephen Gray inside the tent as it were. It didn't happen often, but Mycroft was very aware that pride always came before a fall.

"He took himself off about half an hour ago." Marcus hatch was half pacing, half limping up and down the lounge.

"I hope the poor kid is all right. He's not having a lot of luck recently. Are you okay?"

"I just don't believe it. I know all the facts are there. But Stephen? He was the guy you most wanted on your side in a fight. He's not a traitor." Marcus stopped his pacing and sat down awkwardly on one of the sofas.

"I'm going to find Jonathan." John ran his fingers through his hair, a sense of foreboding following him as he left the room.

Xx

James Moriarty had been furious that some stupid beat copper had stumbled upon his little human explosion in Piccadilly Circus. The ensuing traffic chaos as Rush Hour London ground to an inelegant standstill of strangled vowels and dropped H's, was scant consolation. And then for some reason they had called Inspector LeStrade. Which was a bit better. Moriarty had almost forgotten about LeStrade. Good old, boring, dependable LeStrade. Someone else to play with.

But now as he sat there contemplating his next move he couldn't help but wonder if it had been an accident? And had he made a mistake getting Mycroft Holmes involved? It was well known that Mycroft was the Iceman. Cold. Unfeeling. Dangerous. In another world James Moriarty wouldn't have minded having a go at that. All that power would be intoxicating. But now he was being nagged by a tiny voice of doubt. That he'd got Mycroft all wrong. That he'd got Sherlock all wrong. That they did care. And that they had the means to wipe him off the face of the earth if he were to touch anyone they cared about. In his head, James shouted at Richard to shut up.

He got out of the car. The police car he'd "borrowed". Wearing his "borrowed" uniform. The girl peered out of the front door.

"Hello!" he said brightly. "Are you Lizzy?" The girl nodded her pink tutu fluttering as she moved. "Your Daddy sent me to collect you. He's working on a very important case."

"Who are you?" Damn, the little brat had obviously paid attention during those _don't talk to strangers _films.

"I'm PC Brook. I work with your Daddy." She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, before hopping down the steps.

"Can we have the blue lights on?"

"Of course we can. Now make sure you put your seat belt on." James Moriarty smiled down at Elizabeth LeStrade. But the smile didn't reach his eyes.


	144. Kidknapped!

John Watson had caught the last minute or so of Jonathan reading Treasure Island to Nicky. They had finally sorted out his medication. Mycroft had refused point blank to allow him to take anything until it was verified as being un-tampered with. Molly at St Bart's had come up trumps and rushed the whole batch through her mass spectrometer quicker than Mycroft's people could do it. Bless her, she had even delivered herself, and currently her clapped out Cinque Cento was getting disapproving looks from the residents of Kensington as it was parked outside Mycroft's house. Molly was downstairs enjoying a cup of tea and a slice of Sherlock.

Quite understandably Nicky was feeling rather unwell. The medicine tended to make him tired and irritable and rather tearful. Especially with everything else that was happening. So when John had gone looking for Jonathan, it hadn't really come as a surprise that he'd found him with Nicky.

"I always wanted children." Jonathan pulled the duvet up to cover Nicky's shoulders and made sure the Giraffe was tucked in as well. "But I don't really suppose that's an option. Not anymore."

"Are you okay?"

"No. Not really. But this isn't about me." Jonathan looked back at the now sleeping child.

Xx

A stranger entering Mycroft's study could have been forgiven for thinking that there was a lot of nothing going on. Mycroft was seated at his desk, fingers steepled in front of him, chin resting on his thumbs and staring into the far distance and the folds in the curtains. Sherlock was stretched out full length on the floor, still, eyes closed and corpse like. In the soft glow from the fire Sherlock's face was cast into angular shadows, hollow eyed and other worldly. Mycroft's face was half in darkness, eyes narrowed to two cobalt slits. It seemed that nothing was happening. But inside their heads there was a war being waged.

Very few people knew the real secret of the brothers Holmes. And down the years they had given a multitude of reasons for the animosity between them. A clever diversion from the truth. It was a very real fear when Sherlock asked his brother if he thought there was something wrong with them. Because what they could do, just wasn't normal. It wasn't telepathy or any such nonsense. It was an understanding. A connection. That in any given situation, one would know what the other would be thinking. It made speech rather unnecessary. Like now. As both brothers minds flexed and stretched. Dancing through synapses. Mycroft got there first. A few seconds quicker. He always was. All the evidence weighed up. And now. It was time to act.

Mycroft's phone rang. He listened. A resigned smile playing across his mouth.

"Stephen Gray is not at home. He's gone."

"It is looking rather bad for him."

"Yes. It all seems to connect back to him. Which is rather convenient."

"He knows where you live. He knows where Jonathan lives. He knows where we live. All from a delivery address list at a wine shop. How does he know where Nicky goes to school?"

"I sent a case of Champagne as a raffle prize last term."

"Nothing good ever comes of philanthropy Mycroft."

"Shut up Sherlock."

Xx

Greg LeStrade hurried up the steps of Madame du Maurier's Salle de Ballet. Which was a rather fancy name for describing what used to be the ABC Cinema just off the Tottenham Court Road. Madame du Maurier, he understood, was short for Helen Bagshaw.

Elizabeth LeStrade was nowhere to be seen. Greg immediately called his wife. They were having one of their "difficult" patches. Perhaps in between the arguments about everything she had said she was collecting Lizzy from ballet?

But after several minutes of discreet and increasingly frantic enquiries it seemed this was not the case. Although no doubt it would end up being Greg's fault. He'd only been five minutes late. Five stupid minutes. And she was gone. And how many times had he worked missing child cases? How many times? She knew not to go off with strangers. She wouldn't go off with strangers. He'd told her. So many times.

An hour ticked by before someone remembered a small girl in a Ballet outfit getting into a Police car. Another ten minutes before a radio call to every patrol car in the city had come back blank. Another five before they managed to get a registration number from some grainy CCTV. And another seven minutes and thirty two seconds before one of the whizz kids in the IT Department cleaned up the footage enough to see the room of the car. Where there should have been a black circle containing a number there was a red circle containing three letters. **IOU**.

And then there was no more time. No more time before LeStrade hit number one on his speed dial.

"Sherlock? He's taken my little girl. That bastard's got Lizzy."


	145. One Last Puzzle

His hands were shaking. That was the thing that Sherlock noticed first. And then afterwards he couldn't concentrate on anything else. Just those hands. Usually so steady, now shaking. Mycroft had sent a car at once, to collect Gregory LeStrade. The same Gregory LeStrade now seated in Mycroft's study, hands trembling as they clasped around the cup of tea Mrs Hudson had pressed in to them a few minutes after his arrival. She was another one with unswerving faith in the power of tea.

There had been no phone call. Just those grainy images on the CCTV. A message certainly. But one without a point. Moriarty liked to gloat. Liked to throw down puzzles. Liked to play games. Except there was nothing from him now but silence. And in the silence Sherlock could hear nothing but James Moriarty's mockery.

John Watson was getting more agitated by the minute. It seemed to him that Sherlock and Mycroft were doing nothing. Sherlock was staring intently at Greg, as though reading him like a good book. Mycroft was sat casually at his desk, his face indifferent, that slight sneer of superiority playing across his lips. As though they didn't care. As though everything that had gone before had been an elaborate masquerade. Designed to fool everyone in to thinking Holmes and Holmes were almost normal. John checked his gun. Again.

"I do wish you would put that away Doctor Watson. It is rather distracting having firearms waved about whilst I'm thinking." Mycroft didn't even look up.

"Are you actually going to do something?"

"And what do you suggest?"

"Mycroft, you run the country, and don't pretend you don't. Can't you order in the army or something?"

"If I wanted to I could have the whole country carpet bombed, but what good will it do if we don't know where Elizabeth is?" The mention of his daughter's name wrought something like a sob form the Detective Inspector.

"Well I'm fed up of waiting." John began to pace up and down. Mycroft flicked an eyebrow at Sherlock. John was limping, very slightly.

"It's all fine John. If I am not mistaken he's going to make a move very shortly. He's been quiet for too long now."

"It is not fine Sherlock! There is a little girl missing. And you two geniuses are sat there like it doesn't matter. This is not a game of chess. This is real."

John's rant was interrupted by Sherlock's phone ringing. Sherlock's face was an elegant picture of I told you so.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"Hello Sexy! Have you worked it out yet?"

"Of course I've worked it out. A child could."

"Speaking of children. Little Lizzy is all upset. Now can you work out where she is?" There was a strange noise in the background. "You've got an hour. Or I'm afraid... well...she's going to die. And tell you big brother not to bother being boring and trace the call. It won't work. Pip, pip!" The line went dead.

"Did you get all of that?" Sherlock turned to his brother.

"Echoes. A large building with marble or stone floors. Not a warehouse."

"Not disused either. Traffic noise but muffled. Building still has windows."

"Has to be empty at this time of day. And that noise in the background. Electronic."

"What was that? I've heard it before. Shut up. I'm going to my mind palace." Sherlock lay down on the floor of the study. A picture of concentration.

Marcus pushed the door of the study open gently, as Mycroft played the recorded phone call through for the fourth time.

"Can't you get the sound analysed?" John Asked.

"Yes. But that takes time. Something we don't have. I know I've heard that noise before." And now even Mycroft seemed to be getting agitated.

"I know what that noise is." The small red blanket wrapped bundle snuggled against Marcus raised his head. "It's the noise the Tyrannosaurus Rex makes. At the museum." Everyone was staring at Nicky. He blushed a fierce red and buried his face in Marcus' neck.

Sherlock sat up, a look of annoyance on his face.

"Dinosaurs! There's always something!"


	146. Better Things to Do

Nicky had finally had enough excitement. And whilst Uncle Mycroft was brilliant and lots of people had guns and generally it was like being in James Bond, Nicky had decided it was all getting a bit too scary. And so he had taken the standard place of refuge for an overwrought seven year old and was currently curled up on his mother's lap whilst she stroked his hair with one hand and sent messages on her Blackberry with the other.

John Watson looked at the small boy watching everything from the safety of his blanket. Two large eyes peering out from the red fuzz. It was probably all getting a bit real for him. It was all getting a bit real for John. There was the very fast approaching possibility that someone was going to get hurt. John knew he could shoot if he had to. But even if he had to, it didn't always mean he wanted to

"How you doing Nicky?"

"I'm fine. " He said in a small voice. Then he looked thoughtful. "Could you get Wordsworth for me please? I left him upstairs and he might be worried now he's on his own?"

"It's fine John. Nicky, Doctor Watson has far better things to do than fetch your Giraffe. I'm sure Wordsworth will be fine upstairs." Anthea smiled at John.

"I was going upstairs anyway." And actually, John thought, he didn't have anything better to do than fetch Giraffes. He had other things to do, yes. But not better things.

Xx

Lizzy didn't like the place that the bright eyed man had taken her. It smelt a bit like school. Like disinfectant and feet and sandwiches. And it was dark. She could tell it was dark, despite the blind fold. And she really wanted to go for a wee. Madame Du Maurier was very keen on something called Hydration and she always made them drink lots of water during class saying that it was "very important to hydrate." She always reminded Lizzy of the talking skin in Doctor Who. But the upshot was Lizzy really had to go.

The bright eyed man was near. She could smell him. He smelled of sweat covered with deodorant. It wasn't a nice smell.

"Excuse me. I need the toilet."

"You have got to be kidding me?"

"I really need to go."

"You'll just have to wait."

"I can't wait" She wailed, determined not to wet herself, because only babies did that. And Mummy would be angry as it was her brand new Leotard.

"Oh for God's sake. If you don't stop that noise right now you are never going to need to go to the toilet ever again." Moriarty had never been good with kids and his patience was nonexistent. It seemed his threat had worked as the little brat stopped wailing. Unfortunately the threat was obviously the Coup de Gras for Lizzy LeStrade's bladder. She stood silently in a puddle of her own humiliation whilst Moriarty looked down with disgusted disbelief.

"These shoes are Prada!"

Xx

Sebastian was just closing up the shop when Stephen Gray arrived. He pushed his dark floppy hair from his forehead and arranged his face into a winning smile. Stephen was so easy to handle. Absolute sucker for a pretty face and a tight pair of trousers. Not that Sebastian was interested. And he guessed that even if he'd been gay there was no way he'd have looked at some old fat bloke like Stephen.

"Hi Stephen. Didn't expect you in." He pulled one of the security shutters down. And then found himself being picked up by his t-shirt and dumped roughly on the bargain counter, scattering half price bottles of Shiraz in all directions.

"Right you little shit. You have five minutes to tell me exactly what is going on before I start breaking bones. Who have you been giving information to?"

"What? Stephen you're hurting me." Wide eyed and innocent. That was how to get round Stephen Gray.

"If you don't start talking I'll rip you a second arsehole. Who are you working for?"

"No one. You." Sebastian could feel his arm being bent further up his back.

"Who? Who is going after Mycroft Holmes and his people?" The arm bent a little further.

"No one." How bad could a broken arm be?

CRACK!

That bad. The white hot pain burst through his elbow.

"All right! All right! Moriarty!" But Stephen didn't let go. He pressed down on the break. Starting to apply his whole body weight to that one shattered point.

"Where is he?"


	147. On the Side of the Angels

Lizzy LeStrade wasn't quite sure what an angel was supposed to look like. But she was fairly sure they were supposed to be beautiful. And the strange man with the haunted silver eyes was certainly beautiful. And his coat flowed behind him like wings. He was tall and thin and his skin was pale and the light behind his head shone, like a halo. And he'd come to save her. So he had to be an angel.

The other man who was with her angel was different, but he still might have been an angel. He was smaller and was wearing a jumper and looked a little bit round and cuddly. He was probably a grown up cherub. And he seemed very nice. He seemed a lot nicer that the angel who was looking at her with his strange eyes. The Cherub-man was checking her over and asking questions that she couldn't answer. She could hear them speaking.

"Why isn't she speaking John?"

"She's terrified Sherlock. I think she's almost catatonic. I really can't wait to get my hands on him." Then gentle hands were stroking her face. And wrapping a coat around her. The angel just looked on. Lizzy wished she could speak. Tell them about the bright eyed man. But the words wouldn't come.

She saw other men. Soldiers with black clothes and guns. They were all around, looking. Lizzy wished her Daddy was there. He would tell them all he was a policeman. Then it would all be all right. Her daddy would make it all right.

And then He walked in. And Lizzy was afraid. But not afraid like she had been of the bright eyed man. This was different. Because she was almost certain this man was God. The way everyone got out of His way. As though He had some kind of magic power that made them move. Or they were afraid of Him. The way she could sense the anger rolling off of Him in waves. But not anger at her, or anyone in the room. When He found the bright eyed man he was in big trouble.

And then He bent down to look at her, he was tall. Taller than her angel, even. And he smelled nice. Like biscuits and aftershave. And despite how angry he was, his eyes were kind when he looked at her. Lizzy knew she was safe. When he hoisted her into his arms and suddenly she was higher up than anyone. And he didn't mind that she was probably going to spoil his nice clothes.

"Elizabeth?" She looked at him, with wide chocolate eyes, just like her father's." I think we should take you back to your Daddy. You're safe now." And she believed him.

John and Sherlock looked at one another.

"I cannot get used to Mycroft being nice."

"I think he's always been nice Sherlock. He just had a strange way of showing it. Is there anything here? I can't believe Moriarty would just walk away from it without leaving something to taunt us."

"Oh there's something here all right. The final little problem to solve. Look." He pointed to the floor.

"A pair of swimming trunks?"

"Yes. When I was at school, at Harrow, a boy in the year above me died in an accident. His name was Carl. I'd never particularly liked him. He was a bully and also one of the star sportsmen at school so the teachers tended to overlook certain things. He was an Olympic standard high board diver. And one day, at a swimming gala he dived into the pool and drowned. He had an epileptic fit. By the time anyone realised something was wrong he'd stopped breathing and his heart had failed. It was passed off as a tragic accident. An unseen medical condition. Rather like Nicholas. Another tragedy."

"But?"

"But I didn't quite believe it. Nicholas had a faulty heart valve. They found that at the autopsy. But Carl? There was never any explanation. I tried to find out what I could at the time. But I was fifteen and Mycroft was not quite so important as he thinks he is now. I got nowhere on the case. The only person who would listen to me was a young police constable, straight out of Hendon. He didn't quite believe the report either. But between us we had neither the influence nor the resources to find out what had happened. However I did uncover a rather unsavoury little gang operating at school. And due to my evidence, and the help of Mycroft and the Police Constable, the ring leader was expelled along with two others."

"Don't tell me..."

"Yes John. The ring leader was James Moriarty; he was in the year above me. His father was the Irish Ambassador to the Court of St. James. As you can imagine Moriarty Senior was furious. And in case you were wondering, the Police Constable was Gregory LeStrade."

"What about the other boys?"

"One was called Sebastian Moran, he was in his first year, Shell as it was called. They were quite lenient with him as he was the youngest and had been led astray."

"And the second one?"

"He was in the same year as Moriarty. He was..." Sherlock went pale as he remembered.

"Sherlock? What is it?" John looked up, concerned.

"I've just remembered who the second boy was."

"Who?"

"Lord Anthony Denborough."


	148. Shock Blanket

The armed unit Mycroft had sent to Gray's Wine Emporium arrived just in time to hear the last of a series of blood chilling screams coming from the storeroom at the back. When they entered the storeroom , carefully avoiding the cases of priceless wine stacked along the walls, they discovered Stephen Gray, casually sipping a glass of Merlot with his feet up on a box of Madeira. Slumped in the corner, in a puddle of his own blood and other bodily fluids, was what was left of Sebastian the shop assistant. Adam Benson, the senior officer, took a deep breath. He wasn't quite expecting this.

"Stephen Gray? "

"Well that took you long enough."

"Stephen Gray? I'm arresting you under the 1895 Security of the Realm act."

"Really?" Stephen took another sip of his wine and a handful of chilli coated peanuts.

"By order of Mycroft Holmes." Benson was becoming increasingly uneasy. The groaning coming from the body in the corner wasn't helping either.

"Well if Mycroft says so then who am I to argue?" Stephen made to stand.

"Nice and steady please. Are you going to come quietly sir?"

"I suppose there's a first time for everything Sergeant." Stephen raised an eyebrow and drew himself up to his full height. Adam Benson began to feel like he was being sexually harassed. And slightly nervous because they hadn't told him quite how big this bloke was. "And in case you were wondering, the piece of excrement in the corner making a mess of my floor is the person who is actually responsible for this whole debacle. I suggest you scrape him up and bring him along."

Two members of the team gave Stephen a frisk search which, in Adam's opinion, he looked to be enjoying far more than was appropriate, and once they had liberated him of his gun, another team member brandished the handcuffs.

"Are they really necessary?" Stephen reluctantly held out his wrists. The cuffs only just fastened around them.

"I think they are Sir. Most definitely." Adam was taking no chances. Any man, who could out dance Mycroft Holmes, even for a second, was dangerous.

"If you say so, Sergeant. Oh do forgive me." Stephen stumbled against one of the team leading him out of the shop, almost knocking him flying. "Sometimes I forget my size."

Adam turned his attention to the whimpering thing in the corner. The name badge on his T-shirt said "Sebastian." Adam decided to call control for further instructions.

Xx

Lizzy LeStrade was feeling a lot happier now she was clean and she had been reunited with her Daddy. And mummy was on her way with clean clothes. Lizzy was currently wearing a T-shirt that belonged to a nice man who she thought might be a Doctor. The T-shirt said "Royal Navy" and had a picture of an anchor on it. The man had said sorry for it being a boy's T-shirt and had smiled kindly. He had very beautiful eyes, they were gold and shiny. But not cold. They were warm, like the sun. And he had scars all over his face. Lizzy wondered who had hurt him? Perhaps the bright eyed man had done it? Lizzy wanted to speak. But she couldn't. She sat on the big squashy sofa next to her Daddy, her tears still silently bubbling down her cheeks, and listened to the grown-ups talking. She recognised most of the words. But didn't know what they all meant.

"Do you remember the Powers Case?"

"Yes of course. That was my first case. And almost my last thanks to you!" her Daddy was talking to the grey eyed angel man.

"That's what this is all about?" The big man with the gingery hair was talking now.

"Yes."

"Moriarty is doing all of this as revenge for something that happened when he was at school? Blowing things up, trying to drown people, kidnapping? For a schoolboy grudge?" The Cherub-man put his head in his hands.

"I can think of no other reason that fits all the facts. He wants me to suffer and be humiliated the same as he was. And he wants to show the world that he's cleverer than me."

"So what do we do?" Her Daddy was still stroking her hair.

"We give him what he wants. Me."

One of the nice ladies who had helped Lizzy to get clean, the younger one, had walked into the room and was talking to the big man. He nodded.

"It seems we've found Sebastian Moran. He's been working for Stephen Gray."

"What about Anthony Denborough? And where's Jonathan?"The grey eyes darkened.

"He said he had to go out. That you needed him to do something." The nice lady was pale.

"He's gone after his brother. I'm beginning to think that I got off rather lightly after all." The big gingery man looked at the grey eyed man and half smiled.

Lizzy had noticed, through her silent tears, the small boy peering around the door frame. He had watched the proceedings with interest before noticing Lizzy on the sofa. The boy smiled shyly. But there was something sad in his eyes that told Lizzy he wasn't expecting her to smile back. And then he had given her his blanket. It was red and fluffy and he had been hugging it fiercely when he was stood in the doorway. But he had walked into the room, unobserved by the adults and given it to her. Without a word. And then he had blushed a furious crimson and had scurried over to the nice lady.

"Mummy? Can I have my Inhaler please?" The nice lady had given him an Inhaler, like the one Mary Phillips had at school for her Asthma, only this one was a different colour. It was red like the blanket. Not blue like the swimming pool. And Lizzy remembered.

"The man said he was going to the pool where the boy died at school. He was talking on his phone. To someone called Tony." All eyes were on her and she was very grateful to be able to hide in the fluffy sanctuary of the blanket.


	149. Keeping it in the Family

**Warning: Mention of Child Abuse**.

Stephen Gray didn't like violence. He much preferred gin. But that wasn't to say that when the need arose Stephen couldn't mix it with the professionals. And that was their first mistake. One look at Stephen with his pink linen shirt and clipped vowels and most of Adam Benson's team thought they knew what to expect. A couple had even sniggered when Sergeant Benson had insisted on handcuffing the guy.

Ironically it was one of the sniggerers who got the full force of one of Stephen's meaty fists to the jaw. And the rings Stephen wore on his left hand, the ostentatious collection of sovereigns and signets that everyone assumed were just another part of Stephen's image as a cuddly aesthete, had their true purpose revealed. Knuckle dusters were so vulgar, and you couldn't very well walk down the street wearing one. But a handful of rings? And suddenly Stephen had a gun. Adam reached for his sidearm and realised it was his. And a small part of his brain applauded, because the bump and snatch routine was one he hadn't seen for years.

"I'm very sorry about all this Sergeant. And i do apologise if you get into trouble. I will have a word with Mycroft later. But you see there's a young man I'm rather fond of who's about to get himself into a great deal of trouble. If you'll excuse me."

There was the sound of a driver being forcibly removed from one of the waiting SUV's outside, and then the sound of the SUV being driven off at high speed. Adam looked at his stunned team, a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach about what exactly he was going to tell Mycroft Holmes. Of course Mycroft was another one, you would never think those carefully manicured hands were capable of anything more violent than opening a bottle of Champagne, until the day you saw one of them around someone's throat whilst the other one stuck a gun in the same someone's mouth.

"Sarge?" The team were awaiting instruction.

"Well I'll say one thing. That man has got style."

Xx

The warehouse should have been disused. But in a corner, with the low hum of a generator offering a musical accompaniment, CCTV monitors, a bench with wires and tools. A coffee maker bubbling away. An assortment of high powered weapons and night vision equipment. And a tall, athletic looking man, his platinum blond hair glowing in the darkness .

"I was wondering when you were going to show up half-pint." Anthony Denborough looked down his aquiline nose at his little brother, his handsome face full of contempt.

"I thought it was about time."

"Well done. A whole sentence without a stutter. Still I suppose it's hard to stammer when you're sucking Mycroft Holmes off. Does he taste nice?" Even after so many years Anthony still knew which buttons to push. So he thought.

Jonathan looked at his brother. There was that old fear starting to burn at the back of his head. Anthony was still bigger than him. Still as obnoxious and cruel as ever.

Anthony had watched from the doorway whilst Tobias Denborough had punished his youngest son. Anthony had watched as the beatings had got more severe. He had watched as the bones started breaking. And he had smiled. And looked adoringly up at their Papa. And once papa had left the nursery, Anthony had carried on the torture, squeezing and prodding Jonathan's broken limbs. Amongst other things.

He looked his brother directly in the eyes. And realised it wasn't fear burning at the back of his head, it was hate.

"Anthony Denborough I am arresting you under the 1895 Security of the Realm Act."

"I don't think so. Is it true you had a boyfriend? The one dad had shot by mistake? How did that go? Did you actually have sex with him? Or are you still a virgin?" Anthony Denborough lit a cigarette and walked slowly over to his brother. He stopped just in front of him, placing one of his large hands on the side of Jonathan's face and stroked the stubble on his jaw line with one thumb.

"You are. Aren't you Johnny? Because no one knows what you like except me." The hand became a fist and smashed into the side of Jonathan's face. Anthony placed the cigarette between his lips and began to twist Jonathan's right arm. "Now. You are going to do exactly what I say. And I might let you live. If you're a good boy."

The pain in his arm was ramping up. But just like when he was a child, Jonathan knew no one was going to come to his rescue. And he knew what was going to happen next.

"I wonder what Mycroft would say if he knew what his little pet really liked? But then Mycroft's not going to be saying anything for much longer. Him and his little brother. I wonder if he loves Sherlock the way I love you? You see Jim's got a surprise for them." He released Jonathan's arm and pushed him onto the floor. "Revenge. It's a dish best served hot and wet."

Anthony Denborough gave his brother's arm one more wrench, not quite breaking it, but causing white sparks of pain to jolt through Jonathan's body. And then he started to undo his belt. Jonathan had took a calculated risk on his brother being just as stupid as ever and he reached for the gun in the back of the waistband of his jeans.

"I don't think so, pipsqueak." Anthony Denborough placed a foot on the weakest part of Jonathan's arm and pressed his weight onto it. "You really are pathetic." Jonathan's own gun was now pressed against his face.

"You know what to do fairy-boy."

And then there was a crack and Anthony Denborough was falling backwards, a crimson patch rapidly spreading across the front of his pale blue jeans. Jonathan twisted round and saw the bulky figure of Stephen Gray leaned nonchalantly against a support column, the gun still smoking in his hand.


	150. Like A Game of Chess

"I thought I told you to be careful!" Stephen Gray's white hot fury was burning in his pale eyes as he walked towards Jonathan.

"I thought I told you it wasn't safe." Jonathan hauled himself to his feet and rubbed his arm. His Left hand pointing the gun at his brother's head.

"You shot me in the balls!" Anthony Denborough wheezed between clenched teeth.

"Bugger! I was aiming for your cock."

"Who are you?" Anthony asked Stephen.

"You don't know who he is?" Jonathan wasn't quite sure what the emotion surging through his veins was.

"You didn't really think I was a traitor did you?" Stephen looked resigned, rather than disappointed.

"I didn't know what to think. Once I knew Tony was involved...Tony deals with the wine business." Jonathan trailed off and looked at his shoes, trying to hide his blush. He really liked Stephen. Really liked him. And now Stephen must think he was a total idiot. Tony's blood continued to ooze slowly across the floor.

"Of course." Stephen sighed. "The evidence was rather stacked against me."

Jonathan looked at his brother, squirming with pain on the floor, a look of fear slowly filling up his eyes. Jonathan supposed that was how he would have looked. A terrified little boy begging for them to stop. Jonathan supposed he should feel sorry for his brother. He supposed he should be better than his brother. He looked deep into himself and realised that Stephen must have heard most of the conversation between himself and his brother. Must have heard the painful truth about Jonathan. All the humiliating secrets laid bare. And he'd never want him now. And then Jonathan looked into his brother's eyes, the only trait they shared. The hypnotic green eyes. And Jonathan found he was all out of mercy.

"Start talking and I might let you live." He bought his knee down slowly onto the sticky front of his brother's groin, feeling the blood soaking into his jeans. "What's going to happen to Mycroft Holmes and the others?"

Xx

"He wants me!" Sherlock hissed angrily.

"Well isn't that sweet of him. I am not prepared to allow you to go there on your own Sherlock."

"Me neither." John agreed with Mycroft.

"As comforting as it would be to have something bulky to shelter behind Mycroft, this is about me and him. Everything that's happened. That's how it started. That's how it has to end."

"Can't you just order an air strike or something Mycroft?"

"As tempting as it is to blow James Moriarty of the face of the planet we have no idea what he has planned. He could have bombs rigged in the Underground, museums, any number of public places. As Sherlock rightly said, Moriarty wants revenge on him. And he doesn't care how many people get hurt in the process." Mycroft turned his attention to the ringing phone. And John turned his attention to Sherlock.

"I'm not letting you do this Sherlock. I'm not letting you be the bait in the trap."

"John. We don't have a choice. This is a game. It's like chess. You have to make sacrifices during the course of the game in order to win."

"Yes. But you sacrifice the pawns, not the king."

Sherlock smiled and placed his hand on the side of John's face before looking significantly at his brother, still talking gravely on the phone.

"Whoever said I was the king?"


	151. Burning Time

It was such an ordinary looking place. Like every other public swimming baths John had ever been to. He supposed it did have a touch of the Art Deco about it. Had that look of somewhere designed to be looked at as well as used. Function and form working together.

It had that strange quality that places designed to be full of people often have when they are empty. The echoes. The shadows. The loneliness. The strange malevolence waiting in the corners. John shivered and pulled his jacket closer around him. In front, two feet away from him, Sherlock's shoes made gentle clicks on the tiled floor. Like the ticking of a clock, counting down.

Sherlock stopped suddenly. Somewhere John could hear a generator whirring away, presumably the filters on the pool cleaning the water. He could hear his own breath as well. Slow, steady. Mycroft was right about him. He wasn't traumatised by the battlefield. He missed it. His un-shaking hands hovered just above his gun.

"Don't even think about it Doctor Watson!" The voice, bored, came from nowhere. "Sherlock, your little pet is such a feisty little thing. Is like that in bed?"

"John. Stay very still." Sherlock whispered. John could see the tiny red fireflies buzzing around Sherlock's face.

"I might have known your big brother wouldn't have got off his fat arse to come and face me." The laughter was only just the right side of sane.

"All right. I'm here. Now what do you want?"

"Boring Sherlock! _What do you want?_ When did you get so ordinary? Is that what hanging about with ordinary people does to you?"

"I'm a very busy man James."

"Oh yes! You're a consulting detective. Whatever that is. "

"Let's get this over with. You want me. I'm here."

"It's always about you isn't it Sherlock? He was like that when he was at school John. Oh you should have seen him. He was beautiful. The way he moved. The way his eyes shone. That spark of arrogance in his face that told everyone he was better than them. The way you cried when I had you Sherlock."

"Sherlock? What's going on?"

"Of course it wasn't really him I wanted. He was a nice little distraction, don't get me wrong. But really it was his brother. " James Moriarty slipped out of the shadows, the pale grey of his suit almost an exact match to Sherlock's eyes. Moriarty's eyes were dark in the light. Almost black, like a shark's.

"You always did like the sound of your own voice. Do shut up James."

"It was really Mycroft. I used to close my eyes and pretend it was him."

"Sherlock what's he talking about?"

"He's never told you? Not even when he's laying in your arms. After he's let you screw him?"

"What? We've not..." John was feeling sick. Confused and sick.

"He's never let you? He let me. And the things he used to say. _James you're the only one who understands. No one else knows what it's like to be clever like me. I love you James. Please do it to me again James."_

"John just don't listen to him."

"Sherlock?" John didn't mean to, but he had moved back. Away from Sherlock.

"John. Please?" Sherlock never said please. The fireflies were swarming over him now.

"Oh Sherlock. I told you all those years ago that I was going to burn the heart out of you. Guess what? It's burning time. "

The red dots of the gun sights moved off of Sherlock. Every single one of them now trained on John Watson.


	152. A Higher Power

The Chlorine tang in the air was tickling John's nose. He wanted to sneeze. But he knew if he did there was a good chance he might get shot. He couldn't see the dots, but he knew they were there. Flickering from Lord only knows how many rifles trained on his head. And there was a strange feeling in his stomach, as though someone was slowly pulling his intestines out. Slowly and painfully, the terrible draining sensation creeping up his body as the full enormity of James Moriarty's words sank in.

"Sherlock? Tell me what he just said isn't true." John looked at Sherlock's pale face. The normal emotionless mask was cracked. Somewhere inside his head Sherlock was fighting with the quite frightening realisation that he didn't know what to do. He opened his mouth to speak, and found he was unable to say anything.

James Moriarty looked from John to Sherlock and back again, smiling. Smiling at how pathetic they both were. Smiling because it didn't matter how long the game lasted as long as you won. And he was certain victory was assured.

"It's all true John. Why would I lie to you? Did he tell you it was all about some kid getting killed at school and me being expelled? I was seventeen. I'd done with school by then any way. Carl was a pain in the arse, but he served his purpose. He was an experiment. He was too stupid to be anything other than a lab rat. And afterwards? Well it was like placing an advertisement. Everyone wanted me to work for them after that." He paused, stubbing his toe against a chipped tile."Almost everyone."

"Not Mycroft." Sherlock's voice sounded a little cracked.

"No. Not Mycroft. He'd never even look at me. Always hung up on his precious Nicholas. Do you know how much you look like him John? Enough to be brothers. Was that it Sherlock, when you spotted him? The ultimate way to piss off Mycroft for interfering in your life because his own was over?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like Sherlock? I'd talk if I were you. You see I am going to kill John. And I'm going to make you watch. And then I'm probably going to kill you. Or maybe something worse? I haven't decided yet. And don't start talking to me about your brother. If he was going to show he'd be here by now. He's worked it out. But then he was always cleverer than you."

"Mycroft is going to hunt you down and destroy you." John could feel the sweat running down his back.

"You too John? Everyone falls under Mycroft's spell. That's why Sherlock hates him so much. You know what Mycroft's biggest weakness is Sherlock?"

"Chocolate?" Sherlock was slowly inching towards the gun John had dropped on the floor.

"Oh funny! His biggest weakness is you. Prancing around. Solving crimes. Getting in everywhere you shouldn't. Making lots of noise. Making everyone look at you. Because you're Sherlock and you have to be the centre of attention. And why? Because if for one moment they took their eyes off of you and saw Mycroft no one would ever look at you again. And whilst you're making all that noise and diverting his attention I can do whatever I want. Who needs a diversion when I've got you?"

Sherlock looked at tiled floor. It was true. Most of it. Okay. Almost all of it. But Mycroft always forgave him. Mycroft always made it better. When all the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't fix it, Mycroft always could. Sherlock knew the fall that was coming would be a leap of faith. He looked at John. He hoped he would understand.

"Do whatever you want. I'm not playing any more. And just for the record I never said I loved you." He turned his back on John Watson as a single shot rang out.

John felt the sharp sting bite into his shoulder. It was a horribly familiar feeling. One he hoped never to experience again. As he fell backwards he mused that it could have been worse, it might have been his head. The floor was cold and damp. Very different to the hot sand of the desert. But the sticky puddle slowly growing beneath him was almost exactly the same. John really couldn't see a way out this time. The rate of blood loss meant he probably had fifteen minutes left? Actually more like fourteen now. And he couldn't even gift them to Sherlock this time.

"You don't walk away from me!" Moriarty was screaming. "No one walks away from me!"

"Shoot me then."

"The next one will be in his head Sherlock." The red dot was centred between John's eyes as he lay on the floor. Sherlock paused, for a moment uncertain.

John was feeling a little light headed, perhaps this really was it? The end. Not exactly what he'd been hoping for. A deep breath. What could you do when all your options were exhausted? The only thing left was to put your faith in a higher power. John closed his eyes as he felt his consciousness leaving him, a gentle black cloud beginning to consume his feet. He smiled to himself. A higher power? What did he believe? The black had reached his chest. His throat was dry. The last time, and now he remembered it with crystal clarity his last thought had been: _Please God let me live._ This time it was something different: _I believe in Sherlock Holmes._


	153. The Power of Life and Death

Sherlock looked at the puddle of blood spreading like an ink blot around John. He told himself it looked worse than it actually was. The blood was being diluted by the damp of the floor. It wasn't that much blood. John had just fainted. With the pain. The gun was only a foot away now. If he was quick he could grab it.

At the back of his head a tiny part of him really wished he'd stayed at home.

"Just you and me now Sherlock. Like old times." Moriarty's voice smiled in the half light. "You are all alone Sherlock. Except me. I really am the only one who understands."

"No. John's here. I'm not alone."

"He's dying. All lives end Sherlock. His. Yours. Your brother's. Even mine."

There was a click and a large arm appeared around James Moriarty's neck.

"Yours first, you little shit!" Stephen Gray pressed his gun harder against the pale flesh.

"Stephen Gray? So nice to meet you at last. I've heard so much about you." Moriarty looked calm, but his voice was shivering.

"I doubt that very much."

"No. You Stephen are something of a mystery. Aren't you? Bet no one's worked it out have they?"

"I do advise you to shut up. Bullets to the neck tend not to end well. And I rather like this shirt."

"The pink suits you. It matches your gin." Moriarty tried to wriggle free of Stephen's arm, but was held fast. Stephen pulled his arm tighter and James Moriarty began to turn a rather pleasing shade of red.

"Sherlock, how's John?" Sherlock stood motionless, staring at Stephen.

"He's right. Why can't I deduce you? What's wrong with you? What's wrong with me?"

"Jonathan, get some pressure on that wound." From the shadows Jonathan Denborough emerged, the bloody handprints of his brother still gripping the shoulders of his t-shirt. Moriarty's already bulging eyes widened a little more.

"But it was all fixed..." He wheezed between his teeth. The sniper's dots buzzed uncertainly, not sure who to shoot.

"Yes. Well that's what you get for giving important jobs to idiots. Now do you want me to shoot or break your neck?"

"That's not really a choice."

"Life's so full of disappointments James." The gun clocked. Moriarty flinched.

"Stephen, this isn't good, I can't stop the bleeding. And I'm fairly sure his collarbone is shattered." Jonathan was pressing down grimly on the unconscious John Watson's shoulder, ignoring the disgusting feeling of splintered bone crunching under his hands.

"All right James. Here's the deal. I will allow you to walk out of here if you call off your snipers and let us get John to a hospital."

"No. And if you don't stop strangling me they're going to shoot everyone anyway. Oh and then there's the bomb." Stephen slowly relaxed his choke hold.

"The bomb?"

"Well I say bomb. Massive explosion waiting to happen would be more correct."

"Where?"

"I'll tell you... No wait, I won't because this isn't a Bond film. Now let go of me and I might let you live." The threat didn't bother Stephen. But the red dot nestling on the back of Jonathan's head made up his mind. Stephen relinquished his grip.

"Get over there. And you, runt-boy, leave Doctor Watson alone. He's ended."

"No. And you're going to have to shoot me." Jonathan didn't look up from his grim task.

"Jonathan. Do what he says." Sherlock placed a hand on Jonathan's shoulder, indicating he should move out of the way. Reluctantly Jonathan allowed Sherlock to take over and he moved over to stand next to Stephen. The red dot followed him.

"It's so nice to have the power of life and death. It makes me feel God-like. One word from me and you're all nothing but a footnote in history. You are all nothing. I wonder if that's how Mycroft feels Sherlock?"

There was perhaps a second of silence before a gunshot exploded. Everyone looked around desperately to see who had been shot. And then all eyes turned to Moriarty, laying on the floor, his pale suit flowering with red close to his heart.

"I always find it rather overrated." The gun in Mycroft's hand was still smoking slightly. He turned, addressing the unseen gunmen. "My name is Mycroft Holmes."

There was silence. Punctuated by the ragged and pain wracked breaths of James Moriarty. Mycroft tilted his head back, eyes cold. All the red dots were now focussed squarely on the middle of his chest.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes." He repeated. "Basically: Run."


	154. Taking the Bullet

Mycroft's words hadn't quite finished echoing around the pool, but the red dots had all gone. It seemed his reputation preceded him. Sherlock looked up from where he knelt over John, unease spreading through him. Mycroft's face was in profile, half in the shadows, his long nose and jutting jaw line underlined by the light playing on the water. His eyes were burning with anger. Sherlock didn't need to see them to know. He could feel them. Sherlock wanted to speak. He felt he needed to speak. To say something. Mycroft turned his head to look at him.

"I will deal with you later Sherlock Holmes."

A team of Mycroft's people were securing the building. Sherlock was relieved to see Marcus Hatch was one of them. John would be fine now. It was all fine.

It seemed Mycroft had other things on his mind. Like Moriarty, who was gasping his last some metres away from them, trying to crawl towards a fire escape. Mycroft paced over to him, regarding Moriarty like something unpleasant to be found on the bottom of one's shoes. He turned him over. The blood was bubbling from Moriarty's lips, pink and frothy, rattling through his body.

"It's all over James. Now where is it?"

"No."

"Where?" Mycroft had Moriarty's shirt and tie fisted in one hand "No."

"As you wish." And then, with a detachment that Sherlock would never have dreamed his brother possessed, Mycroft pressed his knee into the bullet wound. James Moriarty gurgled and screamed and there was a terrible cracking noise as his ribs gave way as Mycroft slowly leant his weight on to them.

"Palace of Westminster!" The lips were turning blue.

"See that wasn't so difficult was it?" Mycroft nodded to one of his men, who was already relaying the message on his radio mike. "Now James, how do we stop it?"

"You never looked at me. I only did it so you'd look at me."

"I'm looking at you now."

James Moriarty's vision had begun to swim a little. The eyes looking at him were so blue they hurt. Everything hurt. But Mycroft wouldn't hurt him. Mycroft was the one who stayed in his office. Mycroft was the nice one.

"Hurts."

"I'm sure it does. How do I stop it?" The pressure on his ribs was back. Worse now. He could feel his heart beat slowing. Dying.

"Staying Alive." Why was it so difficult to talk? It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Not for much longer I shouldn't think." More pain. And then he saw the gun. And the pain was replaced with bone bleaching fear. The eyes were still looking at him. Regarding him with a cold detachment. Emotionless.

"But you're different to him. No... You're not like him. You're the one in control. You're the nice one."

"Who ever told you that?" The gun was jammed into his mouth. "Last chance James."

"Staying Alive..." He felt as though he was falling. Plunging over the edge of something, ready to be smashed on the rocks below. He took a deep breath and shivered, he felt cold. Everything was cold. The gun in his mouth was cold. There was a fleeting glimpse of a woman, her black hair being blown in the wind, eyes like his and a female voice saying softly "Oh Jimmy what have you done now?"

And then Mycroft Holmes pulled the trigger. And there was no more anything.

Mycroft stood. Only the few freckles of blood on his left cheek gave any indication he had just killed a man.

"Palace of Westminster then. Sherlock? We need to stop a bomb."

"You killed him." Sherlock was struggling with some very unfamiliar emotions. And the dawning realisation that even in the mind palace there was no where left to run.

"I put him out of his misery. Get over it." Considering there was so much activity going on, there was surprisingly very little noise.

"Mycroft are these absolutely necessary?" Stephen Gray had been handcuffed.

"Un-cuff him. I may need his expert help." A nod of understanding passed between Mycroft and Stephen.

And no one noticed the single, remaining red dot that had settled on Mycroft's chest. No one noticed the strange, soft sound that kissed the quiet of the pool. No one except Jonathan Denborough. But then his attention to detail was what Mycroft had hired him for.

"Mr Holmes!" Both Sherlock and Mycroft looked. There was no time to react. Only time for Jonathan to close the distance between himself and Mycroft and throw himself into the path of the bullet.


	155. The Illustrated Man

Three things happened simultaneously: Mycroft grabbed his brother and flung them both painfully on to the floor, knocking the wind from Sherlock with a painful gasp as his full weight came crashing down on top of him. Four of Mycroft's men turned and fired in the direction of the gunman and a black clad shape clattered from the viewing gallery. And Jonathan, who had so bravely got in the way of the bullet meant for Mycroft, was knocked off his feet. He was snapped through the air as though someone had hooked the back of his t-shirt and was dumped unceremoniously into the deep end of the pool. Inky tendrils of red floated out behind him. He didn't move.

Stephen Gray was probably half a second quicker than Mycroft. Brushing aside the slightly nervous young man who was trying to remove his handcuffs, Stephen took a running dive in to the pool after Jonathan. Mycroft was in a moment later, having extracted himself from his wheezing brother.

Unnoticed by everyone, and unaffected by the noise and activity going on around him, Marcus Hatch was putting a makeshift repair patch onto John's Brachial Artery. It wasn't going to be pretty and John was going to need another skin graft, but at least most of his blood was staying inside him now. Marcus ignored the pain in his shattered knee joint, folded under him on the tiled floor, this was more like it. Like old times. That focus, the adrenaline, when the whole world narrowed to the width of a scalpel. There might have been bullets. There might have been explosions. Someone may have broken open the seals of hell. It didn't matter. In that tiny scalpel wide world there was no room for any of it.

Mycroft's head broke the surface of the water in time to see the deathly pale face of Stephen Gray pulling Jonathan's limp body towards the side of the pool. Stephen's linen shirt was stained a darker pink colour down one side. Mycroft swam over to them, his concern rising as he saw his assistant's blue lips and unmoving chest. He hauled himself out of the pool and helped Stephen to lift Jonathan out of the water. The pale blue tiles at the poolside smeared with a little blood.

"i think he got a lungful of water on the way in." Stephen climbed out of the pool. For some inexplicable reason he reminded Mycroft of Poseidon as he stood there, huge and dripping.

"I'm sorry Stephen."

"If he dies, you will be."

The medical team had arrived, and Marcus was barking orders which no one dared to contradict. If Mycroft had been paying slightly more attention he would have concluded Marcus was enjoying himself amongst the carnage. Jonathan's t-shirt was cut away to reveal a single neat bullet hole on his chest, just near his left armpit. It didn't look that bad. Then they turned him over.

The exit wound left by the bullet was horrendous, a hole on the back of his ribcage that looked like a fist driven into plasterboard. There were a few white splintered toothpicks of bone around the edge of the wound. It was smiling at them. Both Stephen and Mycroft turned away.

Stephen removed his soaked shirt, ringing it out on the floor.

"Haven't we got a date with an explosion?"

"I would have thought you'd rather stay here." Mycroft tipped water from his shoe and removed his sock.

"And what good will that do?" Stephen looked at the distinctive stain on his shirt. The medical team were injecting something into Jonathan now. Someone was saying something in a low voice about collapsing arteries. Marcus was steadfastly ignoring them as he tried to close the wound as best as he could. For a brief moment he caught Mycroft's eye. There was the slightest shake of his head before he returned to his task. And then the high pitched whine as they charged the defibrillator.

Sherlock got rather shakily to his feet. He thought that Mycroft had used a rather excessive amount of force to knock him to the floor. He would not be surprised if by the morning he wasn't sporting a Mycroft shaped bruise over most of his body. John was being loaded into an ambulance. He was breathing. John was going to be very angry with him when he regained consciousness. Mycroft was already beyond angry with him. And now Stephen Gray was looking at him with a cold detachment that clearly spelled mayhem and death for consulting detectives. Should he say sorry? Should he say anything? This was probably some of his fault.

And then Sherlock noticed something rather curious about Stephen Gray. He had a tattoo. Judging by the blurring of the lines and the discoloration it was thirty-five, no, forty years old. But Stephen was a year younger than Mycroft. Three years old when he had a tattoo? A child certainly. Who tattoos children? African and South American tribes? Unlikely. Some religious sects? Possibly. What was the tattoo? Slightly obscured by chest hair. A cross. A cross cut with a second line. And something else. A rose. A red rose. Rose? Cross? No!

"Oh!" Sherlock smiled as though a billion pieces of jigsaw puzzle had slid into place. "That explains everything!"

Stephen glared at him and pulled on his damp shirt, then looked over sadly to where the medical team continued to work on Jonathan.


	156. The Eve of Destruction

Stephen Gray gave one last look back at Jonathan's limp body, surrounded by people, before closing his eyes and following Mycroft. There was an armed guard. A dozen men wearing body armour. Where had they all been when the trigger was pulled? Anyone of them could have caught the bullet and walked away with nothing more serious than a bruise and a dent in their Kevlar vest. But instead it had been Jonathan. Protected by nothing more than a t-shirt and his sense of duty. Stephen knew Jonathan was in good hands. One look at Marcus Hatch told him everything. Marcus may have lost his beautiful face, but his beautiful heart was very much intact.

They rode in silence. Mycroft looking down at his phone and sending messages and instructions. It seemed by some Q-Branch technical feat that it had survived the plunge into the pool. Sherlock sat as far away from his brother as the cramped space in the back of the SUV would allow. All the time staring intently at Stephen. It was a mistake letting Holmes junior see the tattoo of course, that perverted brain of his would be doing all manner of calculations. Stephen leant back into his seat. He'd let it go. For now.

Mycroft looked up from the screen of his phone. Two pairs of silver eyes locked on him. Stephen's were paler than Sherlock's, almost colourless, rather eerie. Sherlock's were that mercury dark they always went when his brain was thinking about several things at once.

"We've cleared the Palace of Westminster. The Bomb Squad are going in."

"They won't be able to diffuse it." Sherlock looked out of the window.

"I know."

"I would imagine there will be a special code to stop it. One last game. One final problem to solve."

Mycroft's phone flashed up a message.

"They've found it. On the roof. They seem to think it's a dirty bomb. Although dirty with what is anyone's guess."

"Anthrax? Plague? Ebola? Something we don't even know about? The list is endless. And you have to admire his choice of location. In one explosion he manages to destroy the political heart of the country and turn whole city toxic." Stephen looked at Mycroft, who's already pale complexion had just bleached of its remaining colour.

"Oh my God! The Thames. If it goes in that we'll never contain it. It's not just the river, there's all the drainage, the flood systems, everything. I never thought I would regret killing James Moriarty."

"What about the Churchill Protocol?"

"How do you know about that? That's level nine classified. The Prime Minister doesn't know about that." Mycroft nearly dropped his phone.

"The Prime Minister doesn't know about what?" Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and was suddenly very interested.

"Never mind. We're not using that until all other possibilities have been exhausted. What about the accomplices? Anthony Denborough and Sebastian Moran?"

"Sebastian isn't going to be saying a great deal for a while I shouldn't think. And Tony Denborough? I may have shot him. A bit." Stephen looked at the floor. The silence resumed until they pulled into the secure car park.

The corridors of power were empty, but somehow as they walked down them the voices of the souls of previous times whispered from the masonry.

"What did he say to you? Before he died." Sherlock was walking right next to his brother now matching his stride.

"Staying alive. He said it twice."

"Do you have his phone? I know you do, I saw you pocket it." Reluctantly, Mycroft handed the I-Phone over to his brother. Sherlock began to scroll through menus, nearly tripping as they started up a spiral staircase, the entrance to which was concealed behind a portrait of Margaret Thatcher.

"Maggie's Tower?" Stephen looked amused.

"Yes. It was the one we all felt like hurling ourselves off when she got into one of her little moods."

The rooftop was not swarming with people. Only two rather worried looking members of the bomb disposal team remained. The two that had drawn the short straws. The bomb itself wasn't that impressive. A laptop. Some wires. A glass jar. A few bundles of explosive.

"Mr Holmes!" The taller of the two bomb squad members seemed very relieved to see Mycroft. "We're not really sure what we're dealing with. The laptop has motion sensors built into it. If you go near it the thing switches on."

"Do we have any clue what's in the jar."

"Yes and no Sir."

"That's not an answer."

"You remember the break in at Baskerville six months ago Sir? The one in which they swore nothing was taken? Well we think that jar is full of the nothing."

Mycroft was already on the phone to the Baskerville Research Facility. His conversation was brief.

"It's Smallpox. Genetically modified. Airborne. It won't just be London. It will be a pandemic. No one has immunity anymore. We don't have enough vaccines. Can we contain the explosion?"

"We can't get near it Sir. When the laptop switches on it speeds up the countdown. And a screensaver pops up. We think you should take a look. There's twenty minutes left."

As they approached the laptop the screen pinged into life and the red ticking clock nested in a swathe of wires began to count double time. The screen saver swam lazily from right to left spelling out two words: Get Sherlock.


	157. The Final Countdown

Sherlock stared at the screen, the clock ticking next to it. He reached out a tentative hand towards the fingerprint reader next to the mouse pad.

"Hello Sherlock." James Moriarty's voice spoke from beyond the grave at him. "Have you worked it out yet? I'm dead. Did your brother kill me? Or did you? No. It will have been Mycroft. One way or another. There's one chance left. One final little play in the game. If you get it right the clock stops. If you get it wrong everyone dies."

Sherlock looked at the mess of wires and explosives surrounding him.

"Mycroft?" Stephen Gray was watching the Holmes brothers. That moment when the two became one and their expression synchronised. But that was no good. Not now. "Mycroft you need to give that order. While there's still time." The clock read sixteen minutes left and counting.

"What order?" Sherlock didn't look away from the screen.

"Never mind. Just try and work out how to stop the countdown." Mycroft pulled out his phone. Sherlock pulled out James Moriarty's. Fifteen minutes.

Sherlock took a deep breath, tuning out Mycroft's voice, tuning out everything until all he could hear was his own heartbeat and the clock ticking down to the end of days. And a mocking laugh. One chance to get it right.

"Hello, Admiralty? This is Mycroft Holmes. Please get me the commanding officer of the HMS Excalibur." There was a pause. Mycroft had already spoken to Black Rod; they would be evacuating Downing Street and The Palace. The Underground would be being locked down. They would kill the power grids to the city with seconds to go. Sir Winston had probably not foreseen this. Not quite. But he had at least given them something. Mycroft clicked his phone onto hands free.

"Mr Holmes? This is Lieutenant Commander Nelson."

"Mr Nelson, This is Mycroft Holmes. I'm ordering activation of the Churchill Protocols."

"Very good Sir. I will need the coordinates." The Lieutenant Commander's voice only wavered slightly.

"I'm sending them now."

"And I will need the pass code Sir."

"Of course. Stand by." Mycroft pushed a button to send the coordinates. He looked out across the city. People still going about their daily lives unaware of how soon it would all be over. And Mycroft was about to become the destroyer of them all. On his word. And his word alone. But it wasn't just the city. It was the whole country. Perhaps the whole world. Those were the stakes.

"The coordinates are locked in Sir. I'm transferring launch protocols to you, awaiting the final code. God bless you Sir."

"Thank you Mr Nelson. God save The Queen." Mycroft looked down at his phone. The screen blinked, asking for the release code. When he'd picked the code he had never thought he would ever have to use it. And he supposed it was sentiment that had decided it in the end. The name that would be on his lips in his last moments.

The clock read seven minutes.

"Sherlock. There's no more time. I have to do this now."

"One more minute! Please Mycroft. I know I can stop this."

"Sherlock..."

"Give him one more minute Mycroft. We're all going to die, why hurry? What exactly are they going to launch at us?"

"A smart missile. Everything within a thirty mile radius of the target with DNA dies. Including the smallpox virus. I'm told in the test subjects death is very quick. Even for those furthest away."

"Nice. We shouldn't feel a thing. I wished I brought a bottle with me now. Front row seat to the end of London. Well it's been a pleasure gentlemen." Stephen perched himself on a chimney pot and gazed out over the city. The river. He could just, if he stretched his imagination and his neck a little, see Queen's Park. Where he grew up.

"I can't work out his password! One password!" Sherlock smashed his fist onto the rooftop in frustration. "Eight letters. That's all I need to save us."

"That's rather ironic as its eight letters that's about to destroy us all." Mycroft began to type N...I...C...

Once the code was entered he paused. The screen gave him two options. Commit. Abort. He literally could destroy them all with a wave of his finger. He looked at his brother, still focussed on the laptop.

"I'm sorry Sherlock." He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I really should have done a better job of looking after you."

Sherlock tilted his head back, and then stood into his brother's embrace. Mycroft's thumb hovered over the Commit icon, flashing red on his phone. Mycroft was holding Sherlock so tightly it hurt, as though somehow he thought he could shield his brother from the horrors to come.

Three Minutes and thirty seconds.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't want to see anymore.

"What was James Moriarty's mother called?" Stephen watched a boat puffing along the river.

"Kathleen." Mycroft wasn't quite sure how he knew that.

"That's got eight letters."

Sherlock slipped from Mycroft's arms and typed the name in. The laptop screen blinked for a moment and then another screen popped up. _**Welcome to My-tunes. Please make your selection.**_

Sherlock scrolled down through the options until he found the tune he wanted. It started to play.

"You know the Bee-Gees wouldn't be my first choice of music to die to. I hope you're right." In spite of himself, Stephen tapped his foot along to the music.

The music played on. At least, thought Mycroft, it wasn't Abide With Me.

"Sherlock. We don't have any more time. I have to launch now."

"Mycroft." Sherlock looked up. "The clock's stopped."

Three pairs of eyes focussed on the clock. The countdown stopped at 00.01. The laptop screen was black, a white cursor flashing in the corner. Inviting someone to type. Mycroft hit the Abort option on his phone. Sherlock typed. One word. One last word for James Moriarty because the game was finally over.

_**Checkmate.**_


	158. During and After

Jonathan Denborough had regained consciousness very briefly in the ambulance. As Marcus Hatch had monitored his vital signs and adjusted a plasma drip the younger man had opened his eyes, gagging a little on the airway. He had tried to speak. Only managing one word. It was poorly articulated but Marcus understood what was said none the less. One word. "Stephen."

There had been a call come through to the driver of the ambulance and they had changed direction, heading away from St. Bart's. A garbled series of transmissions as Marcus had tried to maintain Jonathan's breathing. Something about Mr Holmes...Protocol Six...Ten Minutes. Marcus guessed it would be one of those decisions. The ones that only Mycroft could make. And he really hoped that if it was as bad as the faces of the driver and the armed guard riding shotgun suggested that it wasn't going to cost his beloved Mycroft his soul.

"What's going on Sergeant?" The man in the passenger seat turned round to look at Marcus. He looked impossibly young. Like Jonathan. Boys being sent to do the work of men.

"I can't tell you Sir, it's level 4 classified. "

"I think you can Sergeant. I was a Surgeon Captain in Her Majesty's Navy , and my boyfriend has higher security clearance than God. In fact it's probably him that's causing all this mess. Now what is going on?"

"They've given the order to Bio-Raze London Sir. We're being diverted to the nearest shelter with medical facilities. We might not make it." The young man said it with as much professionalism as he could muster, but there was an underlying tremor in his voice that clearly said he was afraid.

"I see." Marcus turned his attention back to Jonathan. John Watson had gone ahead in another ambulance. Maybe they would take him to the same shelter. Maybe he wouldn't make it either. Marcus wished he had gone with Mycroft. Someone really ought to be with him when he had to make decisions like that. Someone who understood what they really cost.

Xxx

At Mycroft's house a rather stressed member of Secret Service was trying to usher a protesting Mrs Hudson into the cellar. She was not going quietly. Demanding to know what was going on. He explained as best as he could.

"Am I to understand that this is some kind of air raid shelter young man?"

"Yes."

"And that there are a limited number of places?"

"Yes."

"And that we may have to remain in there for some days?"

"Yes."

"Then what earthly use is it me going in there? I'm over seventy! Put someone younger in."

"Mr Holmes was quite insistent."

"I'm sure he was. But I'm not going. Molly should go in. People will need Doctors, not old ladies when this is all over."

Nicky had heard the conversation and he frowned. And remarkably, he understood.

"Mummy?" He tugged his mother's hand.

"Yes darling?"

"Mummy, how long will we be in the shelter for?" Of course his mummy knew. She knew exactly what was going on.

"Perhaps a week. Something very bad has happened and a bomb is going to explode soon and make the air poisonous and people are going to die. But after a week or so the poison will be gone."

Nicky nodded. And then he fixed his mother with determined stare, the stare of someone much older and wiser than the seven and a half year old he was.

"Mummy I only have enough medicine for two days." Despite Molly's tests, Mycroft had ordered the whole lot to be destroyed. "I think I'm going to stay with Mrs Hudson."

Xxx

On the roof of The Palace of Westminster three men breathed a collective sigh. Mycroft quickly issued an order to stand down. There would be repercussions. An aftermath. A post mortem of the bomb and probably questions asked in The House. But at least there still was a House.

The traffic still pottered along the streets of London and people went about their daily business, completely unaware of how close they had come to destruction and the sacrifices that had nearly been made on their behalf. Travellers on the Underground would get home a little late and complain about the trains.

And no one would notice the three men stood on the rooftop of the empty Houses of Parliament. The first stood with his long coat billowing around him like a cloak, his dark curls and sharp cheekbones in stark relief against the bruising sky, watching. The second man, much larger than the other two brushed his greying hair out of his eyes and peered over the edge of the roof down into the soup of traffic and people beneath, a smile playing across his lips like some old classical God, amused at the goings on of mortals. The third man stared into space, his cold eyes focussed on nothing, the light dancing in and out of the red gold of his hair. He was still as the grave, waiting.

And all three knowing that the battle was over, but the war was still going on.

But no one noticed. Because that's what people do.


	159. Like A Platypus

"How did you know what the last password would be?" Sherlock broke the silence in the back of the car.

"I didn't" Stephen stopped chewing his thumbnail. "It was a guess."

"How did you guess? Tell me." Sherlock leaned forward, caught a stern look from Mycroft and leaned back again.

"The look on his face when he realised it was all over. He closed his eyes and he smiled and just as Mycroft shot him, his lips moved. He said Mammy. It's quite sad really. Underneath he was just a little boy that wanted to be loved. And then, when you thought it was all over, you held on to your brother, closed your eyes and said his name. The last plea to the person who could make it all better. The name was different, but the look was the same."

"And from that you worked it out? And I suppose you can read lips? Is that what the brotherhood teaches you?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"I saw the tattoo!" Sherlock was looking directly at him. Stephen casually returned his stare.

"Mycroft. He's rambling. I think he may be in shock. Do we have a blanket?"

"Under the seat." Mycroft was staring out of the window.

"What is wrong with you?" Sherlock was addressing hi brother now. "Mycroft. He's a knight of the Brothers of the Rose. He's got the tattoo."

"Sherlock, I really think it best if you stop talking now. Lots of people have tattoos."

"I don't. Neither do you."

"Wrong again Sherlock!" Stephen had begun poking through the mini bar. "Anyone want a Gin & Tonic?"

"Please. With lime." Mycroft was trying to avoid looking at his brother.

"You have a tattoo? Where? What of?" Sherlock's face was flushed and blotchy.

"Sherlock. In light of what has happened i am trying to remain very calm about this. Not least because in half an hour i am going to have to go to the palace and explain to Her Majesty and the Lord Marshall just what exactly has been going on. However I have not forgotten your idiocy from earlier. John Watson nearly died. Do you understand that?"

Sherlock looked blankly at Mycroft for a few moments. Then he turned his attention to the world slipping by outside.

"Mr Holmes?" The driver clicked on the intercom. "We've just had word from St. Christopher's, Jonathan Denborough is out of surgery and doing well."

"Thank you David." Mycroft accepted the Gin & Tonic with half a smile. "Stephen, you do know he's going to be Lord Denborough now? Since you despatched his brother. Don't worry about it; it will go down as an unfortunate accident."

"So Tony Denborough has no kids?"

"Actually I believe his wife is pregnant with their first, but the rules of inheritance state that the title must pass to the next living male heir. Which is Jonathan. Denborough Hall is absolutely lovely. And of course there are all those vineyards. Someone's going to have to help him look after them."

"Mycroft, don't be ridiculous." Stephen to a long gulp of his drink and crunched on an ice cube.

"Stephen, I am beginning to realise as I get older that absolutely everything is ridiculous. But that is no reason why it shouldn't work."

"Like a Duck-billed Platypus." Sherlock chipped in, still looking out of the window. Mycroft turned his head to look at his little brother closely and saw the tears silently running down his face, dripping onto the collar of his shirt.

"Quite so Sherlock. Like a Platypus." Mycroft was still angry with his brother. But it could wait.


	160. Don't Do It Again!

John Watson's first thought as he regained consciousness was "Oh not again." The pain in his shoulder was disgustingly familiar. He sat bolt upright, trailing wires and nearly head butting the nurse who had been leaning over taking his temperature.

"Welcome back Doctor Watson." She smiled at him. Being head butted was obviously a hazard of the job.

"Where am I?"

"St Christopher's." She smiled brightly and stuck a thermometer in his ear. John's brain was not quite firing on all synapses just at that moment, but something struck him as not quite right. He chewed it over for a minute.

"Hang on. There's not been a hospital at St Christopher's for years. It's a bunch of derelict buildings. It nearly got flattened during the blitz. It closed down in Victorian times."

"1895 to be exact. Or at least the above ground hospital did. Please lay back, I just want to test your reflexes." She bonked him on the knee. "Bit sluggish. We'll try again in ten minutes. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm in a hospital that doesn't exist. Am I dead?"

"Your reactions are sluggish, but they're not that bad."

"Is this something to do with Mycroft Holmes?"

"Isn't everything?"

"Have you got a sister called Anthea?"

"Certainly not. Now please relax Doctor Watson. I wouldn't want to have to sedate you."

John's head felt far too heavy to argue. He lay back, the room swimming with coloured circles and he tried to remember. Black eyes, laughing, Sherlock turning away, red fireflies dancing, smoke, noise.

Xx

The car slipped into an underground garage. Men with guns stood by as they climbed out. Sherlock noticed that Mycroft's hair was just starting to curl at the front, where it had got wet and the gel or whatever he used to keep it in place had washed off. It made him look younger. Sherlock said nothing.

They were escorted into an airlock, and through a low corridor, the ceiling just an inch above Stephen Gray's head. At the end of the corridor was another room, a series of doors leading from it, to various locations identified only by letters and numbers. Sherlock could not help but notice how everyone they met practically bowed to Mycroft. He had a strange feeling just below his stomach, he wasn't quite sure what it was. Of course John Watson could have told him instantly. Any normal person could.

Someone handed Mycroft a suit. Clean clothes with which to meet Her Majesty. He stripped out of his clothes, still damp with the water from the pool and James Moriarty's blood, preserving his modesty with the tactical use of a towel. The wrinkled jeans, shirt and cashmere jumper discarded, replaced with a black three-piece suit. Mycroft used his suits the way a Knight used armour. And then he was standing in front of his brother, cool, composed. Sherlock swallowed. In his head there were a thousand deductions sparking about, all of them piling up behind his teeth, begging to be spoken out loud.

He was expecting to be torn off a strip. Mycroft would give him a stern talking to on the subject of doing what he was told and learning that if Mycroft told him to do something he usually had a good reason for it. Then it would continue along the lines of Sherlock needing to stop being so childish and learn to obey the rules as it wasn't just him that got hurt when he ignored them. And it would probably finish up with Mycroft telling him it was his final warning and genius or not, next time Mycroft would see he was locked up. He had heard it many times before. And ignored it many times before. Sherlock braced himself for the verbal slaughter. All he wanted to do was go and find John.

He had never been hit so hard in his entire life. One of his back teeth broke off in a jagged lump and the raw edge bit down on his tongue. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, sat in a confused heap on the floor. Mycroft Holmes, Servant of the Crown, had just split his knuckle down to the bone on his brother's jaw.

"In future, when i tell you to do something, you do it. Are we quite clear?"

Sherlock nodded from the floor, not quite trusting himself to speak. His tongue was swelling thickly in his mouth. He probably couldn't speak. Sherlock had only seen his brother that angry once before. Memories of the bedroom door split on its hinges.

"Stephen are you coming to see how Jonathan is?" Mycroft was exiting the room. Stephen Gray offered his hand and pulled Sherlock to his feet. Two sets of silver eyes locked on one another.

"I'd do what he says Sherlock. Oh and just because I know you're wondering, it's on his backside. Left cheek." Stephen raised an eyebrow and followed Mycroft. Sherlock stayed where he was unable to move.


	161. Wake

When Jonathan woke up he could see daylight streaming in through the open window, a few dust bugs dancing in the fingers of light. He felt stiff and sore, his whole body feeling dead and heavy. He moved his head slightly, his cheek rasping against something soft and fluffy. Someone was holding his hand. The hand was large, and Jonathan could feel the hairs on the back of it. And just for a moment he thought it might be Mycroft Holmes. And then common sense kicked in where wishful thinking had left off. Of course it was not going to be Mycroft. Jonathan opened his eyes fully, wincing in the room's brightness.

Out of the corner of his right eye he could see the furry round outline of Winston, looking gravely concerned. Winston had spent a great deal of time looking gravely concerned about things.

And then Jonathan moved his head slightly and with some stiffly painful clicking of his muscles managed to look at the person holding his hand. Stephen Gray smiled at him, looking slightly disreputable with a couple of days stubble on his face and a rather rakish black shirt.

"Hello." He smiled at Jonathan and reached across to move Winston into a slightly less precarious position.

"Thirsty." Jonathan was shocked at how croaky his voice was.

"Here." Stephen poured a glass of water and helped Jonathan to sit up slightly to drink.

"How long have I been here?" It couldn't have been more than a few hours.

"A week." The warm hand on the back of his head gently cushioned him as he lay back against the pillows.

"Is everyone all right?" By everyone, he of course meant Mycroft.

"Everyone" Stephen put particular emphasis on that word; clearly construing the plural to mean the singular "Is fine."

Jonathan closed his eyes, not seeing the look of disappointed resignation on Stephen's face.

Xx

Finally, finally Mycroft's week from hell was over. Or at least under control to the point at which he felt able to return home and take a well earned rest. And a bath. A nice relaxing soak in the black marble bath tub that was big enough for three people. He stripped off and looked at himself in the mirror. After everything that had happened he appeared unscathed except for the four stitches on his knuckle. Four stitches. That was getting off lightly.

But if he looked over his shoulder he could see quite clearly the trail of destruction behind him. John Watson shot and certainly never going to be able to play Squash again. Sherlock glowering at him, not understanding, throwing himself into a series of mundane but bloody cases to distract himself. Jonathan unconscious on a hospital bed. Stephen Gray quite prepared, and possibly quite capable of killing him. Tony Denborough dead and Sebastian Moran beaten to a pulp his mother wouldn't recognise at the hands of Stephen Gray. James Moriarty. Shot in the head. Quite dead and lifeless and unclaimed in a government mortuary. And all of it down to Mycroft. Whether it was his fault or not, he would shoulder the blame because that was his job.

And then there was Marcus. The Doctor had been dancing wide circles around Mycroft for a week. There had been no real insistence on Mycroft eating proper meals or getting an appropriate amount of sleep. Just as well. In a week he had slept perhaps eight hours and had lived on takeaways and chocolate. Obviously now Marcus knew what Mycroft was really capable of he was looking for a way to distance himself. It seemed that Marcus was the price. There was always a price. And if he were being honest Mycroft had known deep down one day that Marcus would be the sum demanded.

Mycroft stretched out in the warm water. Allowing the heat to relax the knots in his muscles. He couldn't help but think how nice it would be to have the skilled hands of a certain ex-navy surgeon massaging the aches away. Mentally he berated himself. That was the problem. Allowing someone into your heart like that. Once they had access there was no telling what damage they could do. He was getting soft. Worrying about why Marcus was upset with him rather than the bigger picture. It would not do at all.

"What are you thinking about big guy?"

Mycroft snapped open his eyes and sat up quickly sloshing water all over the floor. Marcus Hatch was perched on the side of the bath wearing nothing but the briefest of towels.

"Er..." Mycroft could think of nothing appropriate to say. It seemed his body was preparing to do the talking.

"Shall I guess?" Marcus slipped into the water.

"Er..." Mycroft's brain/mouth interface was still malfunctioning it seemed.

"Don't shut me out. Okay?" Marcus pressed up against him in the water. "It was what had to be done."

"Yes." Mycroft found his voice before his lips were smothered. More water was sloshed on to the floor. Mycroft caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored tiles. Just him and Marcus, the wake of destruction behind him now out of sight.


	162. The Grapes of Wrath

Martha Hudson had always thought she would have liked to have been a Grandmother. But the fates, it seemed, had decided otherwise. She was enjoying herself immensely looking after Nicky though. Especially as babysitting him came with the bonus of a chauffeur driven car and a very good looking young man called Daniel to carry the shopping. And Nicky was a very good boy. Clever. Very clever. And somehow, he seemed much older than his seven, nearly eight years. He was currently munching on a cookie and dropping crumbs all over the back seat of the car.

The activities for that morning included getting him a haircut. It was a shame as his blond curls made him look quite angelic. He had been most insistent that he wanted a proper grown up haircut. And Mrs Hudson had watched as the ringlets fell away with a little sadness but Nicky's face beamed as the barber held up the mirror for him to see the back of his head and put some rather expensive smelling gel on the remaining short hair. Once they were outside the sun caught his newly shorn head. And Martha Hudson noticed something. Nicky's hair was very red, shining gold and copper. And she smiled to herself and wondered if anyone knew.

Xx

Sherlock had eaten most of John's grapes. And that was probably the last straw.

Not that John actually cared about the grapes. In fact John had spent the last two days plotting the perfect murder in order to obtain a bottle of beer. He wasn't fussed about the grapes. Frank looked put out about it. But then Frank had looked put out for most of the week, possibly due to the rough treatment he had received at the hands of one of Mycroft's people when he had been delivered. The hippo had arrived with a note come get well card from Nicky in which there had been a clear explanation of his discovery of Frank in a tote bag with Sherrinford and The Skull and his subsequent liberation of the bag's occupants. Sherrinford and The Skull, who for some reason Nicky had christened Boris, were having a holiday at Mycroft's. They were apparently enjoying the change of scenery, and Boris was sitting on Mycroft's piano and looking at the garden.

John and Sherlock sat in silence. Where to start? Not where they left off certainly. John had always wondered. Always wanted to know what the answer to the unasked question was. And now he did he wished he could delete it from his memory the way Sherlock did.

What James Moriarty had said. Who else knew?

John assumed Sherlock was a virgin. John had been perfectly happy to give Sherlock all the time he needed. It wasn't like John was brimming over with experience in the field of man on man action. And they enjoyed what they had. Everything but. And now to know the truth. From the lips of that...that... and here John's vocabulary had failed him because really could not think of a word bad enough. To know the truth that someone else had taken away what should have been a special moment between him and Sherlock. Well that hurt more than the hole in his shoulder. The new hole in his shoulder.

And now Sherlock had calmly and silently munched his way through the grapes that Mrs Hudson had sent for John and all John was left with was the stalk. It was one metaphor too many for John's morphine overloaded brain.

"Sherlock. Get out. Now."

"John?"

"Please leave. I need to think."

"Go ahead. Don't let me stop you." Sherlock was using his cheerful voice. John wanted to hit him. Hard. Apparently Mycroft had already done that, there was still a bruise the shape of Mycroft's fist on the side of Sherlock's face. Sherlock had expressed his confusion at this physical outburst from Mycroft.

"Sherlock I need you to leave me alone for a bit."

"Okay. I'll come back later."

"No. I'll let you know when I want you to come back." John turned to face the window. The conversation was over.

Sherlock had taken three paces up the corridor and was already writing a text to Mycroft. He wasn't quite sure what John was really upset about, but he had an idea it was to do with sex, if John's mutterings whilst he was drugged were anything to go by. He wouldn't admit it, but he found it all rather alarming.

John scrunched himself up into a ball, hugging Frank tightly.

"It's just not fair Frank." He was aware of how childish that sounded. Frank gazed back, non-judgemental as ever and let John cry.


	163. Interruptus

Mycroft hadn't replied to the text message. Or answered his phone. The sixteen times Sherlock had called it. Or the house phone. That had just clicked through to Mycroft's supercilious voice on the answer-machine. "Please leave a message after the tone". He knew Mycroft was at home. Because he wasn't at work, the Diogenes Club, or any of the other twenty seven places Sherlock had visited. And everyone knew. Everyone was under strict instruction from Mycroft Holmes that if Sherlock turned up he was to be told immediately.

Everyone knew.

Sherlock needed to speak to him. It was an emergency. There was only one thing he could do. Break into Mycroft's house. He'd done it before. Repeatedly. Mycroft's security might keep out the criminal element of the world but it was no barrier to his little brother.

Mycroft had always been annoyed with Sherlock when he broke in. Something about privacy and ringing the doorbell and acceptable behaviour. Yada-yada-yada! But he had to speak to him. Mycroft was the only one who would understand.

Sherlock stood transfixed in the doorway of Mycroft's bedroom. It had been recently redecorated, the walls now a warm cream, white floorboards and milky linens. There were clothes on the floor. And wet footprints. And a chair had been knocked over.

And Sherlock had never seen his brother look like that.

Mycroft's face was flushed a little and his hair was stuck together with sweat or maybe water from the bath he'd been taking. Or both. His head was tilted backwards and his lips were parted. And his eyes were shut. The expression on his face might have been one of pain or ecstasy. Sherlock couldn't tell. He assumed it was the latter because of the figure with his back to the doorway who was making similar noises to his brother.

Sherlock had never thought his brother would be capable of performing such an intimate act. With anyone. He wanted to look away. He wanted to run. But he couldn't move. And he found that even if he closed his eyes the image of Mycroft mid-coitus was sprayed indelibly over everything like graffiti.

And then Mycroft opened his eyes.

"Sherlock!"

"Oh for God's sake!" Marcus Hatch was not amused either it seemed. Both men on the bed were now looking at Sherlock who found himself temporarily unable to speak. There was a wet silence that echoed around the room. Mycroft levered himself from the bed. Naked. He had never seen Mycroft naked before.

Sherlock looked him up and down. Twice. And found he was even less able to speak than before.

But that was fine because it seemed Marcus Hatch was going to say enough for everybody. Marcus had finally come to the end of his very long fuse. He had tried to be patient. He had stood by and watched Mycroft tearing himself into pieces trying to sort out everything for everybody. He had tried to understand. He had heard all the excuses Mycroft had made about Sherlock. Mycroft had made excuses for his brother with everyone from The Queen down. And now the first time he'd managed to get Mycroft to relax in about a month and Sherlock just barges in? No. Enough was enough.

"Mycroft. Go and have a shower. Me and Sherlock are going to have a little chat." Marcus had hopped around the bed and was pulling on Mycroft's dressing gown. "You." Sherlock realised he meant him. "Downstairs."

"But I need to speak to my brother."

"Downstairs now. Mycroft, Shower!"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft. Evidently he was going to let Marcus speak to the both of them like that. This was a lot not good.


	164. Making A Deal

It wasn't that Stephen Gray disliked children. Far from it. But children always seemed rather wary of him. Probably the combination of his sheer bulk and the pale eyes, which gave him a fantastical quality that small people seemed to find frightening. He'd always quite liked his eyes. They were, if you looked very closely at them, the palest of pale blue. But everyone else seemed to find his gaze rather disconcerting, so he supposed most people never really noticed what colour they were.

He was quite surprised to hear a small voice calling his name as he walked down the corridor of the hospital on his way to see Jonathan.

"Stephen!"

He had peered into private ward, where a small boy was laying on a bed encumbered with wires and monitors. Both the boy and his Giraffe looked rather bored with the whole proceedings.

"Hello. It's Nicholas isn't it?"

"Yes." The boy nodded. "Nicky. Are you going to see Jonathan?"

"Yes I am. Are you all right?" There were rather a lot of machines.

"Yes." The small boy sighed a little. "They are looking at my heart. It will be exactly the same as the last three times. Look." He pointed in matter of fact manner at the monitor. "That blip there is where my heart goes funny." He sighed again.

"I suppose you're bored?"

"Yes." Nicky held up a Killer Sudoku puzzle book. All but the last puzzle had been completed.

"Would you like me to get you a new one? Or maybe the Times Crossword?"

Nicky leaned forward, as much as his wires would allow and whispered conspiratorially to Stephen.

"Could you get me a word search book?" Stephen sensed that word searches were something Uncle Mycroft disapproved of.

"Yes of course I can. Anything else?"

"Jonathan likes Smarties. They're his favourite. And his favourite dinner is steak and onion pie with mashed potatoes and gravy."

"Good to know. Why exactly are you telling me all this?"

"If you're going to marry Jonathan you need to know what his favourite dinner is." Nicky sometimes wondered how grownups ever managed to get anything done. Stephen was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable, something that very rarely happened to him.

"And who says that's going to happen?" The small boy fixed Stephen with his green eyes and raised an eyebrow. For a split second the expression was exactly the same as the one Mycroft Holmes used when people were being particularly dense. "I'll go and get you that book."

Xx

"Sit." Marcus Hatch smelled of Mycroft. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Upstairs he could hear the sound of the shower running. Sherlock sat down on the sofa and stared back at Marcus. "I do not want you ever to break in to this house again. And under no circumstances are you to enter your brother's room without knocking. If Mycroft doesn't answer his phone straight away leave a message. Do you understand?" The yellow eyes were quite unnerving.

"You can't tell me what to do. Only Mycroft is allowed to tell me what to do."

"Still don't do it though do you? When he tells you to do things?"

"It's boring. Everything is so boring. Mycroft never used to be so boring."

"So that's what this is all about. You're bored. Mycroft doesn't want to play with you. So everyone else has to suffer?"

"Mycroft understands."

"No Sherlock, he doesn't. He worries constantly. But that is not the same thing as understanding. He tries to protect you. He's the one who will go into the playground and beat up all the bullies for you. But that is not the same as understanding."

"And how would you know?" Sherlock scratched his arm through the sleeve of his jacket. "How do you know what he's like? He'll never let you see what he's really like. He doesn't care. And he doesn't love you. He doesn't love anything. "

"He shot James Moriarty in the head. And it nearly cost him the country. And he did it for you. Because of what that man had done to you. He ended him. For you. Do not for one moment think that your brother doesn't love you more than everyone else on this planet. Living or dead. He only wants a few moments for himself. Just a few moments where he can pretend everything is all okay. Let him have them."

Sherlock looked at the floor, a tiny muscle clicking in his jaw line.

"John told me to get out of his room. He's upset that I didn't tell him about James Moriarty."

Marcus nodded, he'd had the explanation from Mycroft after the event, how Mycroft found out about the bullying and had it stopped, but how he had never found out about the sexual abuse. Not until later. As he saw it the bullet in the head was payback with interest.

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"Which him? "

"Both."

"What was I supposed to tell Mycroft? That James Moriarty had ...had done that to me because he really wanted Mycroft. That he was in love with him. That all the time he was doing it to me he was whispering Mycroft's name? And what could I tell John? That he wasn't the first? At best he'd be the fifteenth that I could remember? And after a while, I enjoyed it? Because he might have wanted Mycroft, but he'd picked me!"

And Marcus suddenly understood.

"You need to tell John everything, Sherlock. Everything. And don't tell me you don't remember everything because we both know you do. John's going to be very angry with you, and there is a chance that he won't forgive you. But if you don't tell him, he will never forgive you."

"What about Mycroft?"

"I will sort Mycroft out. And you will stop invading his privacy and causing him trouble. Do we have a deal?"

"I suppose so."

"Good. Now go home and have a shower and get some clean clothes, because frankly you smell."

Mycroft appeared in the doorway, still a little damp, his hair sticking up at the back.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes it's all fine. Sherlock's just leaving." And without another word, Sherlock slipped passed his brother and out of the house.


	165. Paying the Ferryman

Jonathan was feeling considerably more comfortable since they had taken the chest drains out. And he was propped up on a large amount of fluffy pillows and had what seemed to be his own private medical team taking care of him around the clock. There had been a lot of efficient doctors and sympathetic nurses but the only person who had really made him feel better was Stephen. For some reason Stephen Gray had visited him every day, sometimes staying until he was told to leave by one of the sympathetic, but strict nurses.

Stephen had sat with him. They hadn't really talked. Stephen had bought Winston, who was currently squinting hopefully at a bowl of fruit. Jonathan reached out his hand and stroked behind Winston's furry ear. The fur was a little more threadbare there. Winston had been stroked many times. Jonathan noticed that one of Winston's seams was giving way, he'd have to get that repaired, otherwise Winston's stuffing would be everywhere. Like blood.

Like his brother's blood.

Tony Denborough had died with a look of surprise on his face that as a frightened ten year old Jonathan would probably have given all that he had to have seen. But what you want when you are ten and what you want as an adult are sometimes very different. And yes, he had wanted his brother to be afraid. And he had wanted his brother to feel pain. But he'd never really thought he'd wanted his brother to die. And die at his own hand. Well it was Stephen who had delivered the fatal shot. But it was Jonathan who had chosen to leave his brother breathing his last in a puddle of his own blood. Their blood.

It was the coldness that scared him most. How very cold his heart felt when he thought about it. And he realised that was how Mycroft Holmes must feel. Cold. Numb. It wasn't a good feeling. But it was the price. The price you paid when you dealt out death.

Jonathan felt his eyes closing. The pain medication made him drowsy. But it was a cruel sleep that filled his head with images he couldn't quite remember when he was awake. A sleep in which he found himself running through the corridors of his family home, and endless wood panelled rooms until he finally reached a room finished in a rich mahogany. The windows to one side were large and bright daylight was flooding in. Perched on two stools and framed in the light were two men, dressed for previous times, talking. The conversation was difficult to pick out but sounded rather like the ones he had often heard Mycroft Holmes have with his brother, the playful games of deduction at the expense of some unknown individual.

The larger of the two men turned, his white hair flaming around his head like a halo. He smiled, and Jonathan was convinced that dream or not this man was looking at and seeing him. And his eyes. His eyes were the palest of pale blue, and quite beautiful. He held out a large hand to introduce himself. Jonathan felt compelled to smile and take it.

The hand holding his was large and warm, and the pale blue eyes looked down with concern. Stephen Gray looked relived when Jonathan's eyes flickered open. And there was a slight hesitation in his voice that suggested he had perhaps heard something strange. Jonathan looked around his room, just to confirm it was real. It had to be real. Stephen was in front of him, reassuringly large and solid. Jonathan leaned forward putting his arms around Stephen's neck and hugging him tightly.

Yes, it was real. And Winston seemed to be sitting next to large box of Smarties.


	166. Stuck in the Recycle Bin

Mrs Hudson had brought John Rock Cakes. Just like the ones his Nan used to make. The secret ingredient was a large spoonful of Cooper's Oxford Marmalade. She had also brought him a book on Churchill, a new toothbrush, some socks with smiley faces on them and a bag of plums. Mrs H was currently brushing Frank to get the fluff out of his fur. There seemed to be a lot of fluff about considering it was a hospital.

John had been transferred to St. Bart's, where he had a steady stream of visitors. Colleagues who kept popping in to make sure he was all right. Mike had been up a few times, in between lectures, giving John the latest "bloopers" from his students. They had laughed, a bit, before the horror of letting someone loose on the general public who couldn't tell the difference between a spleen and a left kidney had sunk in. At which point Mike had excused himself, saying something about setting his students an exam on anatomy.

Molly had popped in to bring John a large box of Maltesers and she had gushed enthusiastically about a brand new imaging scanner that her lab had had donated by an anonymous benefactor. John guessed that the benefactor might have been called Mycroft.

Sherlock had stayed away.

John was glad. Because he still didn't know how he felt. He'd been expecting a visit from Mycroft. A "I'm sorting it all out because he's my little brother" visit. But apart from a very welcome hamper of biscuits and a personal DVD player loaded with every episode of Doctor Who that had ever been recorded, Mycroft had not made his presence felt. John was grateful for that as well. Because, if he was being honest, he was a little afraid of Mycroft. He had once told Mycroft he didn't find him all that frightening. But of course that was before he knew him.

In between visits, when he was alone with nothing but the slight haze of chemicals for company, John contemplated the reasons behind his reasoning. He understood why Sherlock had allowed him to get shot. Again. It wasn't a calculated risk. Sherlock didn't take calculated risks. Sherlock had known right from the start that Moriarty would shoot John in the shoulder. He would never be able to resist the irony. And whilst painful, the wound was unlikely to be fatal. Sherlock had known what he was doing. Showing Moriarty all his cards, but not the aces up his sleeves. And John had believed in him.

And John understood why Sherlock had never told him about what had happened at school. Sherlock perhaps believed he had deleted the memory. But it was like deleting something on your computer. It might be gone from the main menu, but it was lurking in the recycle bin until you completely reformatted the hard drive. It must have been there, lurking in the background. Perhaps genuinely he had tried to forget it and on some level had succeeded. Or maybe Sherlock had remembered all along and had been too scared to tell John? Perhaps he was ashamed? Perhaps he thought it was his fault? That John wouldn't want him if he knew the truth?

Perhaps John was unreasonable? After all what had he done but rejected Sherlock? Only it wasn't because of recent revelations. John didn't care. He didn't care about the bullet, he didn't care that Sherlock would probably never let him...it didn't matter. What mattered was he had let John blunder around thinking he was special. Out of everyone Sherlock had chosen him. And now John realised he wasn't special at all.

When it had come to the acid test, John was like everyone else. And not being possessed with the mind of a genius with a deletable, rewritable mind-palace, John was stuck with the knowledge. Forever.

John Watson was not special. And that made him angry. Angry at the whole world. And especially at Sherlock for just pretending that nothing had happened and everything was fine and normal. And for eating all of his grapes.

Mrs Hudson coughed gently and John blinked and snapped back to reality.

"When do they think you be able to come home John?" Home? That was a laugh.

"Not sure."

"I hope it's soon. Sherlock's been driving me mad playing his violin at all times of the day and night. "

"Yeah...well..." And John was about to say _Get used to it _when Mrs Hudson added:

"He's so much better with you John."


	167. Who's the Daddy?

Marcus had found the album quite by chance. Resigned to not getting a moment on his own with Mycroft that week, he had decided, mainly out of frustration, and partly out of revenge, to rearrange the dining room and evict the enormous spider he had noticed lurking in there the other day. He knew it wasn't really the spider's fault and had picked it out a nice spot in the greenhouse where it could make webs and eat flies without further inconvenience to either party.

The album was quite simple. Bound in dark blue leather. The first picture in the album wasn't really a picture. It was a grainy ultrasound image. The ghostly tadpole like picture of a three month old embryo. Marcus frowned. It wouldn't be Sherlock, certainly the quality of the image was far too recent. The next page was a picture of a baby in an incubator. Obviously premature. Very premature. Just visible in the shot was a long elegant finger, almost as long as the child (presumably it was a boy if the tiny blue hat was any indicator.) The boys hand was gripping tightly around the finger, just below the gold ring.

The boy became more recognisable as the album progressed. Nicky had been an angelic little baby, and seemed to have got progressively cuter as the years went by. A running theme amongst the photographs seemed to be Nicky in hospital. A cheerful looking little boy with a huge plaster stuck to his chest. Him smiling for the camera whilst a trail of wires disappeared out of the shot. Nicky curled up on a sofa looking rather worse for wear. Nicky opening Christmas presents in hospital with tinsel wrapped around the bed frame and heart monitor. Nicky in his school uniform, beaming proudly with a boater perched rakishly atop his curls.

And in every picture, just in shot, was a familiar arm. Sometimes in pinstripes and on the odd occasion in cashmere, but always there, protectively ready to curl around the small boy.

Marcus understood. Nicky was the chance Mycroft had never had with Sherlock. A fresh page in the book. He could protect Nicky from all the nightmares of the world. Mycroft had power and money now. He was no longer a confused teenager trying to save his brother from parents who were absent and a world that didn't understand. No longer the rising star of the British Government trying to spread himself between making a career and saving Sherlock from bullies and drugs and all the rest of it. Now he was Mycroft Holmes. And Marcus understood that.

It was the only picture in the album that was loose. And Marcus picked it up wondering why. Nicky looked uncertainly at the camera, a slightly confused look on his face. He was pale and looked as though he was about to burst in to tears. Marcus couldn't really blame him. Whatever had possessed Anthea to force him into that uncomfortable looking blazer and tie he did not know. There was something strange about the picture. The inclination of Nicky's head, the way his blue eyes seemed to pierce into the viewer.

And then it hit him. Nicky's eyes weren't blue.

Marcus turned the picture over, reading the elegant script on the back of the photograph, in what was no doubt Mummy Holmes handwriting: Mycroft, age 5 years.

And everything Marcus thought he knew seemed, just for a moment, to dissolve.


	168. Left Holding the Baby

Jonathan had always liked his sister-in-law. She had never been anything less than lovely to him and he often wondered what had possessed her to marry his brother. Charlotte Denborough, the dowager Lady of Denborough Hall was currently using some rather un-ladylike language. Jonathan couldn't really blame her. To become a widow and a mother within the space of a fortnight was enough to make anyone swear.

Jonathan was getting used to being Lord Denborough. With the disgrace of his father and the demise of his brother everything came to him. The house, the money, the titles. Charlotte had tearfully visited him in hospital, seeming more upset about his injuries than her dead husband. She had been understandably concerned about her future, or at least the future of her unborn child. Jonathan had said he would take care of everything.

The first bit of taking care of everything was witnessing the birth of what he supposed was his heir. He'd never been at a birth before, not counting his own. He was very glad Stephen had brought him some clothes. Pyjamas with Mr. Men on them were probably not giving the occasion the respect it deserved.

And then they presented him with five pounds and six ounces of squirming pinkness wrapped in a towel. Somehow the staff in the maternity unit had got the impression he was the child's father. The latest addition to the bloodline had fluffy blond hair and a scowl.

"It's a boy, Lord Jonathan." The Midwife seemed rather pleased to have brought another member of the aristocracy into the world.

"Good. That's good. A little boy." The child was squinting grumpily at Jonathan through tiny slitted eyes. Accusing. Jonathan wondered if the baby knew he was responsible for it not having a father.

"What are you going to call him?"

"Erm... Not sure." Jonathan looked at Charlotte.

"Your brother wanted to call him Mark Anthony." She said it without malice.

"Well if that's what you think?"

"I wasn't keen on that. Naming my child after a dead Roman who betrayed his best friend and his country. You should name him."

"Me? It took me three goes to pick a name for my teddy bear and we can't really call this poor little chap Winston."

"What about a family name?" Charlotte shifted uncomfortably.

"No. Definitely not. Look to the future, not the past."

"Yes. Definitely. He's going to be all right, isn't he Jonathan? You will make sure he's all right?"

"Of course." He thought it was a strange thing for her to say. Perhaps Charlotte thought he would take out on his nephew the sins of his brother? Or perhaps, with the intuition that only a mother really has, she had known. The monitor had started to bleep a little erratically and then Jonathan was asked to leave the room.

Charlotte Denborough never knew what Jonathan had decided to call her son.

Jonathan sat watching his nephew sleeping in his cot. They had tried to make Jonathan go back to his own room but he had waved them away with a dismissive hand and a mention of Mycroft Holmes. Earlier on one of the nurses had brought him some painkillers. The sat next to him, untouched. Somehow he didn't think they would work.

"Are you okay?" It was Stephen. Of course it was Stephen. And what was he going to say?

"Yes." He was fine.

"They told me what happened. I suppose we're going to have to look after this little chap for a while?" Stephen smiled gently.

"His name is Charlie." And almost as if he knew they were taking about him, Charlie Denborough scowled in his sleep.


	169. The Empty House

John had been ferried home to Baker Street in a black limousine courtesy of Mycroft Holmes. They had even provided a cushion for Frank and a man to carry John's bag. Mycroft really was a details person.

The flat was empty. And tidy. And devoid of Sherlock. Unsurprisingly his bed was un-slept in, the clean sheets still crisp. The fridge was empty. Except for a pint of long life milk.

John climbed the stairs to his own room. That was eerily quiet and tidy as well, the only sign that anyone had ever been in there was the slight indentation on the pillow. He checked his phone. No messages, no missed calls. Strange.

If he were being honest, he had been dreading his homecoming, not quite trusting himself to control his temper. Wondering if the best thing to do would be to say nothing, go to his room and pack. But this. This empty house he had found waiting for him had knocked him for six.

The kettle was cold. Not even slightly warm. The shower tray was completely dry and the slightly thick smell of drains was beginning to waft up the plughole, suggesting the shower had not been used in a while. The feeling of uneasiness was creeping up on John, making his flesh crawl.

Xx

It was a quiet place. Away from the busy streets and the lights and the city and the surveillance cameras. It was almost quiet enough that he could think uninterrupted. Almost. But his brain still felt fuzzy. Filled with thoughts that he couldn't process. His right arm was itching, just below the elbow, a scratchy irritation in time to his heartbeat.

Sherlock Holmes examined the facts. Mycroft was mad at him: this was probably justified as he had disobeyed several direct instructions from Mycroft and the resulting mess had caused Mycroft a great deal of extra work. Marcus Hatch was mad at him because Mycroft was mad at him. This made less sense. But then living with Mycroft in a bad temper could not be that much fun so that was probably understandable as well. And he couldn't really expect Marcus to understand. Not really. He was reasonably clever, but he wasn't brilliant.

Mrs Hudson was annoyed with him because of the violin playing. And the holes in the wall. And the chemical burns on the carpet. He had cleaned them up. He'd cleaned everything up. It was surprisingly relaxing, scrubbing everything clean. Watching the dust and dirt and coffee rings disappear, leaving no visible trace that they had ever been there. But they were still there. Even if you couldn't see them.

And John was angry. About everything. He had asked Sherlock to leave. He had not asked him to return yet.

Sherlock looked at the rotting ceiling, a plaster moulding dripping down like icing on a shattered wedding cake. The house had once been grand, full of life, full of people. Now it was crumbling, sagging onto its foundations. Empty.

There was broken glass and plaster covering the floor. He lay down amongst the rubble. He wondered if anyone knew about this old house. Whether anyone bothered to walk up the potholed and weed-filled driveway. He doubted it very much. No one would find him here. Not for a while. It was peaceful. And strangely he felt as though he belonged in the old house.

There were so many things in his life he had lost. Things got old. Things died. Things decayed. Things changed.

The needle scratched against his arm, kissing his skin before it found the vein. A seven percent solution was always a seven percent solution. A continuity. Something that didn't care about the advancing of time and the opinions of men.

Sherlock took a deep breath as he felt the burning pleasure begin to thrill in his blood. He didn't hear the faint bleating of his phone, or read the message that had just been received.

**SMS: Sherlock, please come home. JHW**


	170. Heirs & Spares

Mycroft Homes had a blinding headache. A persistent stabbing behind his eyes that was making concentration very difficult. Which was unfortunate as generally meetings about the defence budget really needed his undivided attention. And the Air Vice Marshall was being particularly stupid today. So stupid in fact that Mycroft was unable to bear it any longer and told him to shut up. He then proceeded to run down the salient points of the meeting that everyone else had failed to mention and then told them what they were going to do. Discussion over.

As he left he heard a comment, possibly from Admiral Kaye, who would one day die of his terminal stupidity, along the lines of "Someone's not getting any." Mycroft decided to let him live. For now.

Mycroft climbed into the waiting car and sank into the cool leather of the backseat.

In a way it was true. Since Sherlock had appeared in his bedroom whilst he was mid-coitus and Marcus had decided it was time someone had a talk with his little brother, Mycroft had got none. Mainly because he had proceeded to have a Sherlock induced argument with Marcus.

Marcus Hatch was probably quite justified in his outrage. Mycroft had got over his embarrassment at his brother finding him like that very quickly. In the Book of Sherlock it was a minor transgression, and probably catching Mycroft naked was punishment enough. But for Marcus, unused to Sherlock's behaviour, it had been too much.

The discussion afterwards, two days afterwards to be precise, had turned in to an argument. Generally, Mycroft didn't argue with ordinary people as there was little point. It was like kicking a puppy. Only Marcus did strange things to Mycroft. To his head as well as lower down and Mycroft had found himself in the middle of a childish slanging match without really knowing how it had happened or really what they were arguing about. Marcus accused Mycroft of not telling him everything , of hiding things from him. The upshot of it all had been Mycroft telling Marcus not to interfere in his family's business again, only not quite so politely. And then Marcus had told Mycroft he was leaving and not coming back until Mycroft saw reason, only not quite so politely.

That was almost a week ago.

Marcus had not returned his calls. Mycroft thought that sending a couple of men to Marcus' flat to retrieve him might not be the best peace offering. He'd send him flowers. Or something. Once he'd sorted out Sherlock.

Sherlock was priority one. Lovers came and went. Brothers were yours forever.

"Mr Holmes? We're here." He was snapped out of his thoughts by his driver. Mycroft shuddered a little as he looked up at the weather beaten facade of his childhood home. The front door opened and Mallin, the Butler, emerged to open the door of the car.

"Lord Mycroft, we didn't know you were coming."

"Thank you Mallin, I've only dropped by to see how my brother is."

"Master Sherlock's not here my lord. He left yesterday. I went to take him his breakfast and his room was empty. I assumed he had returned to London."

"No Mallin, he hasn't." Mycroft cursed himself. He had assumed Sherlock would be safe there. Away from the city. Away from the confusion. Surrounded by people who, if they didn't understand him, were at least paid excessively to put up with him and make sure he was all right. Of course there were no surveillance cameras at the Holmes childhood home. Mummy would never allow it.

"I'm sorry my lord. Shall I start a search?" It was a well practised routine, searching for Sherlock.

"No Mallin. It's quite all right. I'll take tea in the library." Mycroft could feel the oppressive panelling closing in on him as he walked down the hallway. He just needed to make it to the library. The library with its huge windows and views of the countryside.

Arthur Mallin served tea to Mycroft in the library. He remembered Mycroft as a little boy sitting and staring out of the same window. It had been lemonade, not tea, back then of course. It was still possible to see the ghost of that little boy in the haunted face of the man gazing at the lawns and the woods beyond. He had always seemed so alone then. There were those few years with Master Nicholas where it seemed as though everything would work out fine and then it had been back to square one. Mallin had watched as the years passed and the boy had become a man, and the man had become master of everything and the expression on his face had remained the same. Even with this new friend of his, the Doctor from London, Marcus, it did no good. Just a balm for wounds that could never heal.

And Master Sherlock didn't help. Running off and demanding to be the centre of attention all the time. And all the trouble they'd had with him at school. Him getting sent down from University. The drugs and all the rest of it. And Master Mycroft had to sort it all out himself. He had a much better sense of duty than his father at any rate.

Rafael Holmes had performed his duty as Lord of the Manor and produced an heir before returning to his preferred past times of espionage and farm hands. It was only when the heir had been unfortunately diagnosed with a heart murmur and other underlying health issues that Lord and Lady Sedgefield had decided they better have an insurance child just in case. And so the spare was born. Two months after Mycroft had arrived, his elder brother Augustus had conveniently died. The spare became the heir. It took them nearly seven years to produce another child, a tiny changeling of a thing that if it were not for the grey eyes identical to Rafael's, the staff would have sworn, discreetly of course, that the child was the result of an affair. Neither boy was ever told of their elder sibling. Augustus Holmes was wiped from the record. A lost boy.

Mallin and the rest of the staff were sworn to secrecy. Although Mallin had a letter all written out. When he died the letter was to be placed in to Mycroft's hands. Because what both of those boys needed was the truth. They deserved to know.

"Mallin, could you please bring me my boots and waxed jacket ? I'm going for a walk."

"Very good my lord."

Mallin left Mycroft alone in the library. Above the fireplace, the portrait of Rafael Holmes looked down unsmiling at his eldest living son. Mycroft had ordered his team in London to check on Sherlock's whereabouts. They had come back in record time saying he was not to be found. That was because he didn't want to be found. And unlike Mycroft, Sherlock had the luxury of being able to disappear.

Mycroft pulled on his boots and jacket and headed out of the manor towards the church yard. The clock in the church tower was striking three. Mycroft didn't know where he would find his brother, but he knew where he would start looking for him.


	171. Truth & Trust

Marcus Hatch had decided that this time he really had fallen down the rabbit hole. Because if he wasn't dreaming Stephen Gray, all six foot six and twenty stones of him, was gently cradling a tiny child and making appropriate soothing noises. The baby, dressed in a rather fetching black and white striped baby- grow and small black woolly hat looked like the world's smallest burglar. The child nuzzled against Stephen's chest before snuffling to sleep.

They had discovered quite early on that Charles Oscar Turing Denborough could only be persuaded to stop crying by his Uncle Stephen. With anyone else, Charlie would fidget and fuss and cry continually. With Stephen he would be lulled into a deep sleep within seconds, or alternatively nuzzle against Stephen's neck. At first they thought he enjoyed the sensation of being high up, but he was equally happy when Stephen was seated. They concluded that Charlie must like Stephen's smell.

"You have a child with you?"

"Yes."

"Stephen, this is a pub." Marcus was very aware of the strange looks they were getting.

"No one's smoking, it'll be fine. I'm just giving Jonathan a break, poor love is exhausted." Stephen took a sip of his G & T. Single gin, diet tonic, he was making an effort.

"I think I've pissed off Mycroft Holmes."

"No you haven't, you're still alive."

"That's what worries me."

"What did you do? I thought it was all going brilliantly?"

"So did I. But we had an argument. A big one."

"About what?"

"About Sherlock, amongst other things, but mostly Sherlock. I know he's Mycroft's little brother and I know that he's had problems in the past but honestly it's like having a stroppy teenager hanging around. And Mycroft just drops everything, every time. He'll never learn to sort himself out whilst big brother does it for him. He treats Mycroft like a parent, not a brother. Which I suppose makes me..."

"The wicked stepmother?"

"Yes. Thank you." Marcus looked at the small child snoozing happily on Stephen's jumper. "I suppose you're the fairy God-mother then?"

"Very droll. I can see hanging out with the Holmes boys has done you the world of good. It's not just Sherlock is it? What else?"

"I can't say. Really. But I just wish he'd tell me the truth. It's very difficult going out with someone when you know they don't trust you."

"I don't think it's that at all. Mycroft has an almost pathological obsession with keeping everyone safe. If there's something he's not told you it's because he doesn't want you to be in a situation where you might have to divulge that information." Stephen shifted Charlie a little further up onto his shoulder as he had been stealthily slipping downwards. Charlie scowled in his sleep but did not wake. "I take it you and His Royal Gingerness have moved on from heavy petting? Being as he let you see his tattoo and all."

"What's that got to do with anything? Yes we have thank you."

"A man like Mycroft Holmes doesn't do that sort thing with someone he doesn't trust. Now, whatever it is you have to accept there is a good reason why Mycroft hasn't told you."

"And what about Sherlock?"

"From what I understand all bets are off when it comes to young Mr Holmes. He is the exception to every one of Mycroft's unbreakable rules. Mycroft became Lord Sedgefield when he was nineteen. Rafael Holmes was found dead in his flat in London. There was a minor scandal about it, but no foul play was ever proved. And poor Mycroft was suddenly in charge of the whole shooting match including his younger brother. In many ways he did become Sherlock's father."

"How do you know all this?"

"I hear things. Anyway, it's not a vast leap of imagination to see how the relationship developed is it? God can you imagine the Christmas dinners?" At the mention of dinner Charlie lifted his head up slightly and began to grizzle. "I think someone's hungry."

Xx

A drop of water pinged off of Sherlock's nose. The ecstasy of the previous few hours was beginning to collapse as reality intruded once more. Although he wasn't entirely sure it was reality. Or maybe it was and he'd just never managed to see reality before and everything else was a lie. Or this could be the lie? Or maybe everything was a lie? And everyone was lying to him? A cold sweat was beginning to prickle on his forehead. What if he wasn't real?

The old man coughed and moved in his armchair.

"I always said they could do what they wanted with you Sherlock, but I never thought they would do this."

"Who are you?" Sherlock looked hard at the man. He had the same imperceptible quality that Stephen and Mycroft had. The man knocked his pipe out on the arm of the chair and smiled.

"You can't work it out?" Ink stains on the cuff. Jacket shiny at the elbow. Did a lot of writing. Tweedy clothes, stout sensible shoes. A lot of writing in the country. A journalist for country life magazine? Faint accent. Scottish maybe? Were they in Scotland? Sherlock was floundering in a head filled with sharp candy floss. He reached for the needle. The dirty needle on the floor, next to the bottle.

"As a physician I wouldn't recommend that Sherlock." Physician? Retired Country Doctor who wrote for the Lancet? No.

"This is ridiculous. You're not real. None of it is. It's all lies." He positioned the needle above a bruised vein and waited for the hit to take him.

"It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Unfortunately, here, everything seems to be impossible."

"Who are you?" Sherlock screamed at the empty room.


	172. Looking for Sherlock

Mycroft sat down on the damp ground in the Churchyard. It was fine. Mud washes off. The grave was neat and tidy, fresh flowers, sun flowers, arranged at the headstone. The servants at the Hall were under strict instructions to replace the flowers and tend the grave twice a week, although Mycroft suspected it was an undertaking that Arthur Mallin trusted no one else to perform.

Six feet below him he knew that Nicholas's body would be rotted away to nothing, perhaps the bones would be left, the fleshless skull grinning forever in a parody of Nick's smile. A few scraps of the suit he was buried in, the leather of his shoes not quite gone yet. The ring would still be there though. It would take a few millennia for the gold to melt away in its protective box. The ring that was an exact match for the one on Mycroft's finger, and was engraved on the inside with the words "I do."

It was strange how one incident could ripple through time and change everything. He never wondered if life would have been different had Nick lived. He knew it would have been, and he often flattered himself that Nick would have stuck with him regardless of how beautiful and intelligent Sherlock was. And everything would have been easy.

"I don't know where Sherlock is Nick. He's lost somewhere. And it's my fault." It wasn't of course, but Mycroft would blame himself anyway. There was no answer but the breeze ruffling the bushes.

Xx

John could not contact Mycroft. It seemed no one could. The British Government was temporarily unavailable. John had begun a lonely search of London, trying to find Sherlock. No one had seen him. No one knew anything. He had even got a few of the irregulars hunting around the more unsavoury parts of the City. He had sent messages to LeStrade who had checked the cell register of every police station in London, and Mike who had checked the Hospital data base for the UK. And finally Molly, who had checked the mortuary records, including the John Does. Nothing.

He was tired and cold when he returned to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson served him up Irish stew and tea. She had been waiting anxiously by the phone for news. But there was nothing. And after he had eaten it was Mrs Hudson who had suggested that perhaps John needed to rest. He still wasn't completely recovered from his latest brush with a bullet and reluctantly agreed on the understanding she would wake him straight away if there was any news.

John lay down on the bed. Sherlock's bed. The splintery ache in his shoulder was going to stop him from sleeping. He reached for the tablets. The high strength pain killers. He'd just take a couple. It would all be fine.

Xx

Sherlock was certain he was no longer awake. But equally certain he wasn't entirely asleep. He could feel his brain twitching, spasms of consciousness. Perhaps he'd taken too much? He tried to open his eyes and found he had no control over them. Or it seemed, any part of his body. But he could feel his brain. Perhaps he had finally done it? Freed himself from the mundane trappings of the flesh. He was just an idea now. A series of electrical impulses and chemical processes floating on the air. He could go anywhere and do anything without the confines of meals and breathing and clothes. Free.

But if he was free why was there a small aching part of him that he was still acutely aware of? If he was free to think of anything and everything in the cosmos, why was the only lucid thought he was able to process an irrefutable need for John Watson? He wanted to go home. Mycroft would come and get him. Then he could go home.

"My brother will find me." He wasn't sure if he said it out loud or in his head.

"He might." The old man answered.

"Am I dead?"

"Were you ever alive?"

"Are you God?"

"Well that's the question. Did I create you Sherlock Holmes? Or has that brilliant mind of yours created me? Am I creator or creation? Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest of forms my dear boy. I suppose that's why we're both here. Or not here."

"Where is here?"

"My dear fellow, don't you know? This is where it all began, where you were conceived and born. And it might be where you die. It's time to choose what you really want."

"I want to go home."

"That's the right answer."

Xx

Mycroft jumped a little as his phone bleeped and broke him out of his thoughts. They were using the emergency channel to find him.

"Hello, Mr Holmes? This is Jeremy Huggins sir; we've located your brother's mobile phone. At a location in Surrey. What are your orders?"

"Thank you Jeremy. Ask them to send the helicopter for me."

"It's already on its way sir." Jeremy, as Mycroft recalled was a rather handsome young man who had most of the ladies in Q-Branch swooning after him. Obviously the boy had brains as well as being pleasing to look at.

"Thank you Jeremy. Have a team standing by."

"Yes Sir."

Mycroft took one last look at the grave he had spent the past hour sitting on and frowned as he noticed something on the top of the headstone. One pink and one yellow liquorice allsort. Despite the rain that had started to soak into Mycroft's trousers the sweets were dry, as though they had been placed there only moments before.


	173. The Spirit of Place

Nicky took a deep breath on his inhaler and then looked up indignantly at his mother. Anthea looked down at her small son, who she privately thought was becoming more like his father every day.

"We are not getting Charlie that thing."

"Why not?" Nicky was clutching the thing in question in both arms now, having put his inhaler into his pocket.

"It's ugly. It will frighten him."

"He's not ugly. Are you Artie?"

"Artie?"

"Arthur T Aardvark." Nicky's jaw was set and he tilted his head back slightly. The Aardvark, a quizzical looking creature in a rather murky burnt orange shade, looked up at her with its black bead eyes. She felt as though she was being ganged up on.

"Oh all right then. Although I'm quite sure it is not what Uncle Mycroft had in mind when he said for you to choose a present for the baby."

"Yes mummy. But I like him. And I think Charlie will like him too." Charlie had been the hot topic of discussion since his birth. Nicky had already appointed himself as Charlie's big brother and was making extensive plans for their future relationship and all the exciting things they could do. Anthea smiled at her son's enthusiasm but it was a sad smile. Despite the very best medical care that Mycroft had arranged, it was the general consensus that Nicky would be very lucky to reach his teens.

Xx

John drifted happily off to sleep once the tablets had kicked in and he floated languidly in a pain free sea of undefined images from somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain. He was on patrol in Afghanistan, the hot sandy grit crunching under his boots. Then he was peering over a cliff top in Cornwall looking at the foam whirling on the water below. Then he was scrambling around on the side of a waterfall, slipping on wet ground but surprisingly unafraid of falling. And then he was walking up the drive of a country house. The red brick facade welcomed him like an old friend, as though somehow the house knew him. John had the sense of being in another time, or rather out of his own time and in some other John Watson's shoes.

The door of the house was open, beckoning John to step inside. He wasn't afraid. It felt somehow as though he was always coming to this place right from the beginning. Like going back to a place you had been happy as a child and discovering it unchanged.

"John Watson?" The voice was familiar and yet strange. The man stood at the bottom of the stairs was a stranger, his white hair framed in a halo of coloured light from the stained glass of the windows.

"Yes." John answered.

"You aren't as I had imagined you'd be. But that scarcely matters. He's lost John. He's lost without his Boswell."

"This is a dream isn't it?"

"I suppose for you it is." The older man smiled kindly. "Or maybe it's more like a ghost story."

"I've not been here before."

"Do you know where here is?"

"Well the sign on the gate said Undershaw, wherever that is. Sorry who are you?"

"Just a figment of your imagination John Hamish Watson. He needs you John. You need him."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that's how I made it. Now you need to wake up John." The door of the house was still open and John's feet crunched on the broken glass and plaster on the floor.

"John...John...wake up." Mrs Hudson was shaking him. "They've found Sherlock."


	174. An Understanding

It was a terrible thing to admit, even if it was only to yourself, that you had seen worse. Worse than the sight of your little brother lying on the floor of a derelict house, cut to ribbons by the broken glass he was using as a mattress. Worse than your little brother surrounded by his own vomit and soaked with sweat and urine. Worse than your little brother with a needle stuck in his arm and the bruises and dried blood and track marks all forming an exclamation at the end of the sentence. The sentence that told you: "You've failed".

Unfortunately for Mycroft Holmes, he had seen worse.

Not one of the team who walked in to the house with him dared to say anything. If anyone had thought ill of the junkie laid out on the floor, they kept it to themselves. They all knew who the man was. That he was Mycroft's brother. The troubled black sheep of the family. The thorn in the British Government's side.

Mycroft kept his emotions fiercely in check. His face a picture of cold indifference as they scraped Sherlock off of the floor. That was how he dealt with it. That was how he dealt with the team of people now looking at him. If he was like that with his brother, his own flesh and blood, looking at the man on the stretcher with curiosity but not concern, what would he be like with anyone else. They were all afraid of him. Mycroft made sure of that.

Inside of course, Mycroft was burning. That cold heat that seared his insides. The sharp pain of fear that Sherlock might have really, actually killed himself this time. And the sinking feeling that if he had, Mycroft was going to have to tell Mummy. And she would fix him with that disappointed look she always did when he had let her down. And sooner or later he would get the lecture about grandchildren. And whilst he played the dutiful son, what Mummy didn't know, would never give her the opportunity to ruin.

The second helicopter touched down in the grounds of the old house and John Watson came sprinting out of it before the blades had stopped rotating. No doubt he was used to that sort of thing, although he did look rather green.

"Mycroft?"

"He's alive John. Just." Mycroft turned away for a moment. "He's shot himself full of drugs. I should have seen this was going to happen."

"None of this is your fault Mycroft. Every choice he's made has been his own. Not yours." But Mycroft did not look very convinced.

"John, he's my little brother. I should have taken better care of him. Rather than indulging myself. This is what it costs when I choose other people over Sherlock. Because other people don't understand."

"I'm other people. I understand."

"No John. You don't. Not really." Mycroft was walking away now. "But you try to. And that's more than anyone else does."

"Mycroft where are you going?"

"I have to go and see Marcus Hatch. Sherlock is being taken to a private hospital. Please go with him John. He'll need you when he wakes up. "Mycroft climbed into a waiting car which sped off into the twilight.

"Doctor Watson? Are you coming Sir?" A medic was hanging out of the open door of the Ambulance into which Sherlock had just been loaded.

"Yes." John still wondered where, ultimately, Mycroft was going.


	175. The Smell of Elephants

Jonathan was trying to catch up on his paperwork. There were several things that Mr Holmes required his expert eye casting over. But it was all rather difficult to concentrate on when he was sat five feet away from a shrieking baby. Jonathan sighed and put down his pen and picked up Charlie.

Charlie stilled for a moment, sniffed in an affronted manner, and then redoubled his crying. He wasn't hungry; he'd had a bottle ten minutes previously. He wasn't wet or soiled; Jonathan had held his breath and checked. He might be tired but he would not go to sleep. Lord Jonathan Denborough was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he was the problem.

Stephen Gray took the phone call from a frazzled sounding Jonathan and left Stephanie locking up. Stephanie came highly recommended and had been vetted by Mycroft's people. On top of which she had the Nicky seal of approval. He liked her tattoos. Stephen arrived at the new townhouse in Kensington and was greeted by Charlie crying and Jonathan stressed.

Charlie stopped crying thirty seconds after Stephen picked him up. Jonathan couldn't help but take it personally. An hour later Charlie was bathed, changed, fed, dressed in a new baby grow with Champagne bottles on it, and fast asleep snuggled up to Wilson, Stephen's Elephant and childhood friend.

"The baby hates me. He knows I'm not his Dad."

"Well thank God for that. If he's going to hate anyone it should be me. I was the one that shot your brother. Not you. Babies can smell fear you know?"

"Perhaps I should get a Nanny?"

"Absolutely not. And he's not getting packed off to some posh prep school in the middle of nowhere either."

"He's already down for Harrow. Mycroft sorted that out."

"Well that was kind of him. But that's not until he's thirteen."

"I don't think I can take thirteen years of this."

"It's going to be fine. He knows you're nervous when you pick him up. So it makes him nervous. And he cries."

"How come you are an expert on babies?"

"My sister has five kids."

"I didn't know you had a sister." Jonathan was rapidly realising the sub total of what he didn't know would fill several volumes.

"And it's a lot to do with smell as well. He likes the elephant because I assume he smells like me." As if to illustrate the point Charlie happily hugged Wilson's soft blue trunk.

"So I just need to smell like you and everything will be fine?" Jonathan blushed crimson as soon as he said it. His brain raced on to the finer implications of that statement. It wasn't as though they were going out or anything. Stephen was just helping out with Charlie. They'd not even held hands or anything yet. Mycroft was probably paying Stephen to do it.

Stephen looked down at the younger man. He was a foot shorter than Stephen and probably half his weight. There was no way this could possibly work. But as Mycroft Holmes had said, everything was ridiculous. Stephen put his arms gently around Jonathan's shoulders and pulled him in close to his body.

"You do know that can be arranged?"

Jonathan stood on tiptoe to kiss Stephen on the lips, whilst his hands fumbled with Stephen's belt.

"Yes. I'm sure it can."

Charlie wriggled in his sleep, hugging in closer to the Elephant. But he didn't wake.


	176. Cold Turkey Curry

When he woke up and everything was clean, he knew what he had done. There was a fleeting memory of an old man in a tweedy suit and a young man with flame red hair both looking at him with an expression of sad concern. He knew the young man was Mycroft. Somehow in his dreams Mycroft was always young. In real life he got older, but in Sherlock's head he was forever fifteen. Perhaps that was the problem. The dream Mycroft was so much better than the real thing. But dream Mycroft had called him an idiot and slapped him in the face. And dream Mycroft had become real Mycroft and the man in the tweedy suit, who said he was a doctor, had gone completely.

And now the itching started. It started in his foot. Just on the nobbly bit of his big toe, and from there it spread scratchy fingers up his body. Scouring his flesh with harsh razor caresses until it reached his head. Where it set fire to everything and tried to lay waste to his brain. And it wasn't worth it.

"Sherlock. Its fine, you're going to be okay." It was John's voice. The real John. But Sherlock couldn't move. His arms and legs were held by giants, pinning him to a bed of nails. If he could escape then he could get to John, before the giants did. Then they would be safe. The only way he could escape was to chew his way out. He would bite through his captor's fingers and then he'd be free.

John Watson watched as the staff at the rather exclusive little sanatorium they had been taken too, sprang into action. The needle was emptied into the line in Sherlock's arm and a soft foam bar was placed into the detective's mouth. A precaution to stop him biting through his tongue. Sherlock arched off the bed as the fit and hallucination began to take hold of him, spitting blood from around the peg between his teeth. Thrashing against the restraints.

John had seen people coming off drugs before. He'd held them down and injected them with sedatives and changed the soiled bed sheets. He'd done all of it before. But at that moment he felt as helpless as he had the first time.

"Sherlock. I'm here" But he had a horrible feeling Sherlock couldn't hear him.

Xx

Mycroft took a swig of Scotch straight from the bottle in the back of the car. Why was everything such a mess? And why did he always have to sort it out? _Because that's what you do_, a little voice in his head replied.

The car stopped outside the block of flats and Mycroft realised it was the first time he had ever been to Marcus Hatch's residence. The flats were okay. Nothing flash, probably one and two bedrooms, young professionals. It was strange to think of Marcus living here. It didn't really suit him.

The lift was broken and the stairwell smelled faintly of vomit and stale kebab. Mycroft walked the four flights to Marcus's floor and along the corridor to where his flat was located. It would be a long walk with an damaged leg, he thought to himself. Whatever the outcome of the discussion that was about to occur, Mycroft made a mental note to get someone to fix the lift right away.

He knocked on the door. There was the sound of music coming from inside and the smell of curried something wafting under the door. The door that was answered by a rather striking young man in a pair of jeans so tight they looked like they had been painted on. He was perhaps fifteen or sixteen; his dark hair streaked with platinum blond, and he wore tinted glasses.

"I'm sorry. I think I must have the wrong flat. Is this Marcus Hatch's residence?"

The youth looked Mycroft up and down, no doubt taking in the carefully selected jeans and shirt and the highly polished brogues, a slight smirk playing on his lips. He turned, shouting over the music.

"Hey Dad, your boyfriend's here!" The boy looked smug as he said it.

Marcus hatch appeared in the doorway of what Mycroft presumed was the kitchen.

"You're not too old to be sent to bed without any tea Jason. Who is it?" And his face went white as he saw Mycroft Holmes standing on his doorstep.


	177. Double Oh Dear

Mycroft stood in the doorway silently, Marcus looking at him with a desperate expression on his face.

"I thought you said he was like James Bond, Dad. James Bond isn't ginger!" Jason Hatch, if that was his name, seemed to be enjoying the show.

"Jason, could you please go to your room."

"Why?"

"Now please!" Marcus was trying to keep the rising note of hysteria from his voice. Mycroft was going to end him. Probably in a very painful way which would result in his body dissolving and his existence being wiped from the face of the earth.

"Whatever." Jason slouched off down the corridor to his room, where he slammed the door. The dramatic effect of the slam was ruined by the soft flump of the draft excluder on the door.

"I'll go." Mycroft was backing out of the door.

"Stay. Please. I'm making curry." There was always a chance he could distract Mycroft with food.

"You have a son? Is he yours?" Perhaps not.

"Yes. Yes I do." Marcus was tempted to return the question to Mycroft, but he realised that somewhere his sense of honour was never going to let him use Nicky as a scoring point in an argument.

"Has he been on his own here all the time you've been with me?" That made Marcus smile. Mycroft Holmes just could not help but be protective of children. Even confusing, obnoxious teenagers who questioned his red-headedness. Although thinking about it, Jason probably reminded him of Sherlock.

"No. God no! There wouldn't be a flat left. He usually lives with his mother in Birmingham, but he's at the Royal College of Music Summer School." As if on cue the sounds of Cello began seeping under the door of the teenager's bedroom.

"You didn't want me to know about him?" Mycroft looked as though he was going to cry.

"I'm surprised you didn't know about him. I'm sure the moment we met you had a full background check done on me."

"It might come as a surprise to you to know that I didn't. Well not really."

"You didn't?"

"I had you checked to see if you were a terrorist threat with any known associations. And I may have run a general background check on you. Just the basics of course. But I liked you far too much to run a full check on you."

"Past tense. Liked. That's not good."

"Nothing about a child ever came up."

"It wouldn't. His mother and I never went out or anything. I'm not named on the birth certificate; we thought it for the best at the time."

"Yes. How did... how was the child conceived?" He was blushing. Mycroft Holmes was actually blushing.

"How's a child usually conceived?"

"Er...Oh. I see."

"It was a one off thing. I knew her from medical school. I did offer to marry her."

"What did she say?"

"Actually she laughed at me." The conversation was interrupted by the shrill noise of the smoke alarm going off. "Oh bollocks! The curry!" Marcus hurried to the kitchen to extinguish the Chicken Tikka.

With the crisis averted Marcus returned to the corridor, where he found Mycroft leaning thoughtfully against the wall.

"He really does play beautifully."

"Yes. He does. He's not a bad kid; he's just never met any of my boyfriends before. I suppose having a gay dad is all cool until you get the reality of it."

"You told him I was James Bond?"

"I was trying to put it into a context he'd understand. I couldn't very well tell him that actually you run the world and we're only all allowed to live on your say so. I thought he might get a bit confused about it."

"So you told him I was a spy, that I kill people and have gadgets and go on secret missions instead?"

"Pretty much. Yes."

"And yet you failed to mention I have red hair? What does everyone have against red hair?"

"Well I think it's rather sexy actually." Marcus reached up to wrap his arms around Mycroft's neck and in spite of himself and all the promises he had made in the car on the way over Mycroft found himself leaning into the embrace and not hearing the door open.

"Oh will you just get a room?" Jason looked at his father and the rather tall redheaded man embracing passionately in the corridor. The two men hastily separated and Marcus gave his son a warning look that promised mayhem and death and grounding for life. Mycroft turned a very charming shade of red.

"Wow. Your face has gone the same colour as your hair! Are you really James Bond?" The boy had his father's eyes. Golden yellow.

"Jason. This is Mycroft Holmes. We went out for a while." There was a sad resignation in Marcus's eyes.

"Is that a code name?" Jason was obviously taking great delight in the discomfort of the adults.

"No, it's my real name. I'm pleased to meet you Jason. I'm Mycroft Holmes. I'm your father's boyfriend." Mycroft held out his hand.

"Okay. Cool." Jason shook Mycroft's hand. Marcus smiled at Mycroft. He wasn't quite sure where they were going, but at least they were going there together.

"Oh and Jason? James Bond works for me." Mycroft smiled back at Marcus and followed him into the kitchen to tend to the wounded curry, leaving Jason speechless for once.


	178. The Oddness of Grown Ups

Jason watched his Dad and Mycroft Holmes very carefully. Jason loved his Dad and was certainly not going to let just anyone go out with him. The first thing he noticed was that Mycroft seemed completely okay with his Dad's battered face and body. Like it didn't matter to him. That was a major plus in his favour.

People still stared. Jason used to be embarrassed, when everyone was looking at them, whispering to each other as though he and his Dad were invisible. It was worse before Marcus had been fitted with his artificial leg. As he got older he had got angry about it. Why everyone stared and no one ever saw. And no one ever bothered to ask why. But this Mycroft guy had kissed his Dad right on the scarred bit of his neck, which if he was telling the truth even Jason thought was a bit gruesome.

On the down side, Mycroft was obviously very posh. Jason was surprised he knew what curry was. And he looked like his butler had dressed him, Jason was certain there was a butler of a valet or something somewhere. Sure Jason could give a lot of hardened fashionistas a run for their money where clothes were concerned, but this Mycroft guy looked perfect. Completely groomed. The jeans looked like they had been tailor made for him.

And his Dad had been behaving differently as well. He was always cool, but serious. Sometimes he was so serious Jason felt like slapping him, only he knew that would be the last thing he ever did on earth if he tried it. It was like his Dad took the responsibility of being a parent really seriously, even if he only got to do it a few weeks of the year. It was always _"eat your vegetables, do your homework, I don't think that film is suitable, no you may not have a tattoo." _ At first it had been a drag, like his Dad thought he was in the Navy, still giving orders. But he realised eventually it was probably because he loved him and he wanted everything Jason had to be the best he could possibly give him. That was why he was serious all the time.

Now though, with Mycroft, his Dad was laughing, making the other man eat more food, which was probably a good idea as he was a bit thin for those shoulders. And they were flirting. Which was quite utterly disgusting. It was very grown up, posh-ginger flirting, but it was still recognisable. The little glances, eyebrow raises, and even his Dad's hands staying too long on Mycroft's shoulders.

"So how is Sherlock doing?" Marcus put another half of naan bread on Mycroft's plate.

"Not well. But he's safe." Mycroft ate another mouthful of chicken.

"That's good. "

"It would have happened whether you were there or not."

"Who's Sherlock?"

"Mycroft's brother."

"Sherlock Holmes? The guy who's always solving crimes in the papers? He's your brother?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"He is so cool. Did you see that one with the terrorist cell and the statues of Margaret Thatcher? He like totally saved everyone from getting blown up. He's your brother?" Jason was wondering how badly his Dad would kill him if he suggested swapping the rather stiff ginger guy for the other brother. The infinitely cooler, trendier, other brother.

"My brother is spoken for, so your father has to make do with me I'm afraid. I'm sure I'm not as good a catch as my handsome, trendy little brother, but we make do."

"Sorry." The guy could read his mind. This was bad! He was never going to be able to have secrets from his Dad ever again. Jason concentrated very hard on avoiding the vegetables in his curry.

"Don't worry. I'm very discreet." Mycroft winked at Jason and began eating his naan bread. Marcus looked pointedly at his son.

"Perhaps once we've eaten you can play something for Mycroft just to prove that you aren't really a Luddite."

"Do I have to?" Jason rolled his eyes. It was okay having a proud Dad until you got dragged out to play in front of everyone who ever visited.

"Jason!"

"It's fine. I would like to hear you play Jason, but I would much rather it was at a time when you wanted to. I know it's something you only give your best at when you are inspired to."

"Yeah! But how do you know that? Do you play?"

"I used to play the Piano. But I haven't played since...not since I was sixteen. My brother plays the violin, he's almost professional standard. We had hoped he'd choose it as a career."

"Have you got a piano?" Jason's eyes lit up.

"I have a Baby-Grand at the house in Kensington, and there's a full sized concert Steinway at the Manor. You'd be very welcome to use them any time you wanted."

"Thank you. But why don't you play anymore?"

"Jason, I think we should get started on the washing up." Marcus knew exactly why Mycroft never played any more.

"It's perfectly all right darling. I had a very dear friend who died, very young. We used to play duets. And somehow after he was gone I didn't feel inspired to play anymore."

"That's harsh." Jason started to clear away the plates without argument. Pausing with a stack on the way to the kitchen. "You must have really loved him. I hope I never stop playing."

"So do I." Marcus and Mycroft spoke the same words together. Mycroft stood up to walk around the table to where Marcus was seated.

"You are so tall!" Jason had just a note of admiration in his voice. "You're like a Giraffe!"

"Jason are you deliberately trying to embarrass me?" Marcus was squirming.

"It's quite all right. That's what my friend used to say." Mycroft watched as Jason carried the plates thoughtfully out of the room.

"I think he's warming to you. Once you strip away the layers of dirt and obnoxiousness he's really a very lovely boy."

"I heard that! I'm only in the next room Father! And don't start any smoochy grown up stuff either. You could scar me for life." There was the sound of enthusiastic dishwashing. And then the sound of a plate breaking. "Sorry!"

"So, cards on the table Mr Holmes. Now you know everything. Is it still all fine?"

"Yes. Of course it is." Mycroft paused, chewing over whether he should tell Marcus his dark secret. But how could he keep them safe if he did? Sometimes ignorance was the best way. "I don't wish to alarm you but Jason reminds me an awful lot of Sherlock."

Marcus Hatch spat his beer across the room. Jason appeared in the doorway with a tray containing a Coffee Pot, three mismatched mugs and a pint of milk. Marcus and Mycroft both looked at him.

"What?" Jason concluded, not for the first time, how very odd adults were sometimes.


	179. Meet the Ancestors

Arthur Mallin had managed to contain his shock. He put it down to years of practice dealing with Master Sherlock. Lord Mycroft had of course told them he was coming. And he had sent some of his people to help with the preparations for his arrival, which included having the piano in the library tuned and having master Mycroft's old room redecorated with some rather jolly dinosaurs. Mallin presumed this change of decor meant that a child was to be amongst the guests for the weekend. But Mallin hadn't quite been expecting this.

The familiar black car pulled up outside the house and the staff had lined up to greet His Lordship. The door was opened by the driver and Mycroft had emerged carrying a small boy who was wrapped in a purple blanket. The boy was fast asleep, his coppery blond head buried in Mycroft's neck. One small hand clutched a dangly looking Giraffe, which seemed vaguely familiar to Mallin.

As if on cue the boy woke and looked blearily out at the unfamiliar faces in front of him and at the huge house, his green eyes widening with ill suppressed excitement. He pulled the Giraffe in a little closer.

"Welcome home Lord Sedgefield!" Mallin smiled at Mycroft, and at his small charge. Mycroft smiled, and the boy he was carrying smiled, sensing that all was well. And Mallin suddenly felt as though a thousand ghosts had just walked through him. Mycroft set the boy down on the gravel, which made a pleasing scrunch which the boy tried to replicate by jumping experimentally.

"Is everything all right Mallin?" Mycroft had noticed the sudden paling of the butler's face.

"Yes your Lordship. Everything is quite all right." In fact, Mallin thought, everything is possibly wonderful.

"This is Nicholas. He's my ward." Mycroft placed a hand on Nicky's shoulder. Nicky who had been scrunching the gravel with the toe of his Giraffe patterned Converse smiled up at the old butler.

"Very good My Lord." Mallin beamed down at the small boy and then back at Mycroft. "Everything is prepared as you instructed."

"Thank you. How did Mrs Patmore take the news?"

"To be honest My Lord I think she's relishing the opportunity to cook for a crowd. I've not seen her this bad tempered in years!" Mrs Patmore had been the Cook at the manor when Mycroft had been a boy. The more she shouted at everyone, the happier she was. And no one really minded. Mycroft for one would have ordered the invasion of the United States for her chocolate cake and thought it a small price to pay. "I believe there was some crisis involving the custard for the trifle earlier. I think it made her year."

"I can always rely on you for an honest appraisal Mallin. Nicky do you want to see the house or are you still tired?" Mycroft was of course teasing. Nicky was bristling with excitement next to him, and sounding just a little wheezy. Mycroft handed him his inhaler. Nicky pulled a face but took his medicine anyway.

"I have a heart murmur." Nicky looked up at Mallin, who he obviously thought was wondering what the inhaler was about.

"Well I hope it won't spoil your stay with us Master Nicholas." Mallin was looking at the tiny heir to the Sedgefield fortune and remembering. Remembering Augustus Holmes, who was buried in the churchyard under a false name. Wondering if knowing the family medical history would make any difference. And making his mind up that his duty lay with the future and not the past.

Mycroft stooped down to pick up the small boy and Mallin wondered if His Lordship was aware that he was carrying a miniature version of himself. Of course, there was no one left from the old days, except Mrs Patmore, no one who would remember what a seven year old Mycroft Holmes looked like. There were very few pictures of young Mycroft. Lady Holmes had an intense dislike of his red hair and had considered him an un-photogenic child. Lady Holmes was mercifully away, and these days even when she was at home she rarely left the Dowager House on the other side of the estate.

"Has my brother arrived yet Mallin?"

"Not yet my Lord. You're the first."

"Good. I think we'll have some tea in the library and then I'll show this young man the house."

"Very good my Lord." Mallin bowed his head slightly. Mycroft walked through the open doors of his ancestral home carrying Nicky and even though no one could hear them, the souls of previous times whispered a welcome to them both.


	180. The Kingdom of the Blind

Sherlock had stared out of the window of the car for the entire journey, his face paler and more drawn than usual. The Hospital had been amazing. Faultless almost. There had been a private room for John which would have given most five star hotels a run for their money. Both John and Sherlock had been treated like Royalty. John suspected that the hand of Mycroft was at work. Only Sherlock's big brother had never put in an appearance. John had stayed with Sherlock and watched the treatment, watched Sherlock writhing in agony as his body demanded another fix. He had held his hand and tried to calm Sherlock.

He had tried to be a good Doctor. A good friend. But all the time the voices in John's head had whispered louder than Sherlock's screams. Whispered that there were more secrets to come. That the worst wasn't over with.

John had noticed that his bank balance seemed to be rather healthier than it had been two weeks previously. A series of draw droppingly large payments from something called "The Garrideb Foundation", which was upon looking it up, a charitable organisation that funded medical studies and research. John was a little affronted as it was almost as though Mycroft had paid him to stay with Sherlock. Words were going to be had later.

Sherlock wasn't well. Not completely. But John realised that perhaps Sherlock had never been well. At least now he wasn't screaming and begging for drugs, although quite what benefit there was to him staying for a weekend at his childhood home was yet to be seen. He knew both Sherlock and Mycroft hated the place. He knew neither man had ever been happy there. But like everything else, John also knew he probably had to trust Mycroft. That there was a reason behind it. Although it was rather like standing on a very tall building that was burning and someone telling you to jump and they would catch you.

"John this is going to be tedious!" Sherlock broke the silence of the car but still looked out of the window at the rolling fields.

"I think you may be right. Your mother's not going to be there is she?"

"I bloody well hope not. I think Mycroft said he was putting us in the Blue Room. You'll like that. It's more like a suite really. There are two rooms with a bathroom in the middle."

"Is it actually blue?" John was beginning to feel like he had fallen into a remake of Brideshead Revisited.

"It used to be. But Mycroft had it redecorated. Mummy was livid of course, it had been blue since the house was built. Mycroft said it was time for a change. The same as the Chinese room, that used to be all red silks and oriental lacquer work. Now it's full of African Tribal artwork. Mycroft does have a rather twisted sense of humour."

The car swung into the long driveway, the wheels crunching the gravel as the house loomed into sight. Sherlock tensed visibly, pulling his coat around his thin frame. His new coat. The old one had been beyond repair. The new one was an exact replica, except for the lining. The lining was a beautiful cloud silver, as though the tailor had matched it to Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock set his face into a haughty sneer as the car drew to a halt and the door was opened by one of the footmen waiting at the entrance of the house.

John looked up at the forbidding architecture, feeling his insides shot through with ice. He was trying not to think of the many episodes of Poirot and Miss Marple he'd watched where people came to country houses for weekends and ended up murdered. But of course as soon as he tried not to think of it, he could think of nothing else.

"Welcome home Master Sherlock." John assumed he was the butler. A heavyset man with near military bearing slightly stooped with aged.

"Thank you Mallin. I see the lock on the door to the wine cellar is still sticking."

"It is indeed Sir!" Mallin didn't ask how Sherlock knew that. He accepted the statement as though it was a comment on the weather and smiled warmly. "Doctor Watson. Welcome to The Manor. Lord Sedgefield is taking tea in the library with Master Nicholas. If you would like to follow me."

They had walked a few paces down the panelled hallway with its sweeping staircase, the one that Mycroft had broken his arm sliding down thirty years previously, when a door opened. A small, dumpy woman wearing and apron and a quantity of flour peered out.

"Master Sherlock? Is that you?"

"Yes Mrs Patmore. It's me."

"Is there someone else with you?" She squinted at John, who realised that the old lady was almost blind.

"Yes Mrs Patmore. This is my friend John. John's a doctor." The lady bustled towards them, beaming a smile.

"Well, happen I might have something for you and your friend, young man." She produced a plate, containing two perfect small pies. Without hesitation Sherlock reached out and took one, biting into it and revealing the purple blackcurrant filling. John wondered how she could see to cook them.

"Perfection as ever, Mrs Patmore."

"I don't need eyes to do something I've been doing since before you were born John Watson. Now Master Sherlock, don't you upset yourself. You're home now. And it will all be all right."

John was alarmed to see tears running down Sherlock's cheeks. And more alarmed that this old lady was able to read his mind. They continued up the corridor to the library. Sherlock wiped his eyes on his sleeve and pushed the door open, being greeted by the sight of his brother and Nicky playing Ker-plunk on the floor.

"Sherlock? What was all that about?" But Sherlock was watching his brother and the small boy now. Both faces concentrating hard on the game they were playing. Sherlock glanced around the library, the faces of previous Holmes looking back at him from various portraits.

"Well, John, it seems it's about the difference between being blind and just not being able to see." Sherlock left John to puzzle over that and went to join his brother on the floor.


	181. The Morning After the Night Before

Stephen was used to waking up alone. Most of his adult life had been spent waking up alone. They almost never stayed the night. _They_ being the numerous individuals that had at one point or another shared Stephen's bed. Stephen had a tendency to rush, mostly due to him wanting to get some kind of release before the individual he was with realised what was happening and changed their minds. That had happened more times than he cared to think about. There was also the small matter of a lot of his bedfellows charging by the hour. He wasn't proud of it. Any of it. But it was pointless denying it.

He had hoped with Jonathan it might be different. It had felt different. It had been slow and careful as they had explored each other. Stephen had become very aware of how much bigger than Jonathan he actually was and had tried to be as gentle as possible. And when it was over with, Jonathan had collapsed on top of him and had stayed there until his breathing had evened out and they were both asleep.

Obviously Jonathan had come to his senses sometime in the night and there would probably be an awkward breakfast before he asked Stephen, politely, to leave. Stephen sighed. Perhaps it was best if he just quietly got dressed and left. He retrieved his shirt and jeans from the floor, giving up on his socks which had been sacrificed to the sock goblins during the night and was tiptoeing as lightly as his bulk would allow towards the front door and the hallway where his shoes were.

He was just passing the living room at the front of the house when he heard a snuffle. A Charlie type snuffle. Stephen peered in through the open door and was greeted by the sight of Jonathan, asleep, wearing Stephen's dressing gown, with Charlie, also fast asleep, on his chest. One of Charlie's tiny fists was clutching on to Wilson the Elephant's trunk. Stephen felt his heart squeeze a little.

"Stephen? Where are you going?" Jonathan opened one eye. Charlie breathed deeply and snuffled a little more but continued to sleep.

"I was just...er...nowhere?"

"Good. You were right. He likes me now I smell like you." As though he knew he was the topic of discussion Charlie opened his eyes and looked hopefully at Stephen. "I think he might be hungry. Can you take him and I'll go and make him another bottle? And then I'll make us some breakfast." Jonathan smiled and handed over the scowling baby. Charlie seemed to have a permanent scowl, as though he were trying to work out a very hard maths problem, but it was quite a cheerful scowl and he seemed happy enough with being handed to Stephen, immediately burying himself into Stephen's neck.

"About last night." Jonathan began.

"Yes. Last night. Of course." Here it comes, thought Stephen. Jonathan seemed to be struggling to find the right words. Stephen braced himself for the thanks but no thanks. Jonathan stood on tiptoe and kissed Stephen on the chin.

"Thank you." Jonathan smiled, Stephen breathed a sigh of relief, and Charlie scowled at both of them. "For being patient. For putting up with me. Us. I...I love you."

And for once, Stephen couldn't think a single thing to say.


	182. Napoleon Holmes

Nicky, it seemed, was an expert when it came to Ker-plunk and fairly soon he had beaten Mycroft twice and Sherlock three times, whilst John looked on amused. The first time Sherlock hadn't really been trying. But the next time he was, and the next.

"How do you keep doing that?" Sherlock gazed at the small boy suspiciously.

"It's all maths. If you know the size of the marble and the angle that the plastic sticks make with each other you can work it out."

"You're seven!"

"I'm nearly eight!" Nicky looked indignantly back at Sherlock before picking up Wordsworth and pointedly going to sit on the sofa next to John Watson.

"Just ignore him, Nicky." John put a comforting arm around the boy's shoulders. "He's just a bad loser."

"Actually, I think it's a remarkable skill to have at such a young age. I'm just curious as to how you came about it."

"I don't know. I can just do it without thinking." Nicky shrugged and stroked Wordsworth's ear thoughtfully. "Is that wrong?"

"No it isn't wrong. Not at all." Mycroft had unravelled himself from the floor and sat down on the large leather sofa. Nicky scooted across to him, but left the Giraffe with John.

Sherlock thoughtfully rolled a marble along the floor before turning to see Nicky snuggling up against his brother's recently re-upholstered torso. Behind the sofa, Great-Grandpere's eldest brother, Napoleon Holmes, smiled down at them from his portrait. Nineteen years old and bound for the Somme, where he would die on the second day of the bombardment and never come home. He had the same red hair that Mycroft had inherited, although his was a shade lighter. There was that same look in his eyes that Mycroft had sometimes, a quiet resignation. Napoleon Holmes looked impossibly young, far too young to die in some muddy trench in France. He must have been expecting to inherit the family estate and titles and all the rest of it, but that ambition was cut short. The boy in the portrait stared out at his great-great nephew, silently trapped forever about to go to war.

Sherlock couldn't stand to look any more. Not to look at the picture of the dead boy who should have been Lord of the Manor. To look at his brother, who should have been happy forever with the childhood friend who should have done great things. To look at Nicky, who wasn't even going to make it to fifteen. To look down at his own thin wrists sticking from the sleeves of his jacket and know that the marks of the recent humiliation he had brought upon his family were there. His family. All the dead boys and their sacrifices. Sherlock ran from the room. The marble continued its course upon the uneven floor and skittered into the skirting board.

John stood to follow, forgetting he didn't have to make excuses for Sherlock where Mycroft was concerned.

"He's a bit tired. It's been a long day. And being back here..." John left Mycroft and Nicky sitting in quiet contemplation on the sofa.

Nicky hopped down, retrieving Wordsworth, who was stealthily trying to disappear between cushions. The small boy looked thoughtfully around the room before his gaze settled on Napoleon Holmes' portrait. The uniformed boy seemed to smile down from his frame.

"Who is that?"

"That is my Great-Great Uncle Napoleon. He was killed in the First World War. He was a very brave young man"

Nicky looked at Mycroft for a few moments before staring at the painting's eyes. The artist had done a very good job with eyes. They looked like they were actually seeing you. But they weren't blue icy eyes like Mycroft's. They weren't even the cloudy grey colour that Sherlock's were. They were bright, fizzy green. Like his.

"Uncle Mikey?" Nicky was feeling very strange, as though the room was getting much smaller and the floor was melting under his feet.

"Yes Nicky?"

"Why does he look like me?"


	183. Father to Son

Mycroft had done some difficult things in his time, but they were all as nothing compared to trying to explain to a seven nearly eight year old who his parents were. A very intelligent seven nearly eight year old who was rapidly adding two and two together and multiplying the answer by infinites. Nicky just looked at Mycroft with tear filled eyes, hugging Wordsworth tightly and trying to retreat into the cushions on the sofa.

"You're my Daddy?" Nicky scrubbed his eyes against Wordsworth's back.

"Yes. Yes I am." Mycroft was crouched down in front of the small boy.

"Does Mummy know?" Nicky was obviously not quite certain on the practical aspects of bringing a child into the world.

"Yes. She does."

"Why aren't you married to her? I thought you could only get a baby once you were married. Or were you married?"

"No. We've never been married. And people don't have to be married to have babies." This was beginning to remind Mycroft considerably of the time he had been charged with explaining the facts of life to an eleven year old Sherlock, whose reaction in the final analysis had been a _"that is quite disgusting!" _

"Do you love my Mummy? Because I thought you loved Marcus. And I don't see how you can love them both?"

"I do love your Mummy. But it's not the same thing. There are different kinds of love." Mycroft was trying to think of the best way to explain to his small son that he was the result of a business transaction. Anthea had been paid handsomely to bear his child. Of course, the actual conception had been done in a laboratory in Switzerland. "And we both love you very much. More than you can possibly imagine. And we would never let anyone hurt you."

"Is that why you shot Mr Brook?"

"Yes." The boy's eyes widened, and Mycroft continued. "In my job I have to keep secrets and I have to look after a lot of people. And there are people like James Moriarty, who you knew as Mr Brook, who want to know those secrets and want to hurt the people I protect. He thought that if he hurt you I would tell him some secrets or stop protecting the other people. And that just wasn't acceptable. Nobody is allowed to hurt you. Ever."

"But what if someone hurts you?"

"No one can hurt me." Which wasn't strictly true, but Mycroft didn't want the boy to be worried. Mycroft joined his son on the sofa, his knee cracking rather loudly as he moved. He was very relieved when two small arms and a Giraffe wrapped themselves around his neck.

"If you're my Daddy, why don't I work properly? Because Mummy's heart is fine and so is yours, but they said at the hospital once that it must have been something to do with my Daddy. They thought I was asleep when they said it." Nicky was obviously constructing a conspiracy of gigantic proportions in his head, Mycroft couldn't really blame him.

"We think your heart was damaged when you were born. You were very early, what they call premature and your heart wasn't ready to work. They don't really know why, or what it will mean when you are older."

"Am I going to die like the other Nicholas? The one who Wordsworth belonged to?"

"No." Mycroft kissed the top of Nicky's head, wondering how he could have failed to notice the red-copper colour before now. He had always believed that Nicky looked nothing like him. Mercifully nothing like him. "No, because I will not allow it."

It took a few minutes before Nicky had fallen asleep, his breathing slow and even and Mycroft had carried him carefully to the newly decorated Dinosaur Room. No doubt Mummy would throw a fit over it but she could just join the queue. Mycroft laid the sleeping boy down on the bed and covered him gently with a blanket pressing a kiss to his forehead before he left.

He found Arthur Mallin waiting for him at the end of the corridor, a serious look on his craggy face.

"I wondered if I might have a word, My Lord?

"Certainly Mallin what about?"

"There's something I think you ought to know."


	184. Running Away

John found Sherlock looking out over the landscaped gardens and the topiary towards the open countryside. Fields and trees and gently rolling hills for miles. He was standing at the top of a short flight of steps leading down to a Roman style pond, where some rather fat orange Koi swam languidly beneath the surface, occasionally nosing out of the water in the hope of food.

"When I was a boy I used to imagine running away from here. Setting off running and never looking back. I always wondered what was over those hills, the ones right out in the distance. I don't know why, but I was quite convinced that I would find the sea. And a ship moored and waiting for me to take me away from them. From this." He gestured backwards at the house.

"I ran away from home once."

"Really?"

"Yes. I'd had enough of Harry and decided I was going to go and join the army. Me and Frank got as far as the roundabout at the bottom of the road before my Mum apprehended us. I was six. I tried to convince her it was all Frank's idea but she wasn't buying it."

"She sounds like a very sensible woman."

"Yes. She was. Did Mycroft ever try to run away?" John was trying to imagine it.

"No. Mycroft has always been the one with an overinflated sense of duty." Sherlock paused. "Actually that's not fair. Mycroft was the one who used to buy me escape time. Often at his own expense. He used to take the blame. I was Mummy's favourite and she was more willing to believe he was the guilty party every time. He was trying to keep me in favour. It didn't work. I think he tried to give me the childhood he didn't have and I threw it back in his face. I know he was beaten, quite often, for things that weren't his fault."

"That's terrible!" John could count the number of times he had ever been seriously whacked by his mother on one hand and with the benefit of hindsight he accepted he had thoroughly deserved it every time. She'd never hit him hard, and only ever on his backside.

"She didn't like Mycroft because he wasn't pretty. He was fat and had freckles. And the Holmes family red hair."

"I bet he was cute!"

"I don't know. I've never seen any pictures of him when he was younger. By the time I came along he was all stringy."

"So what was with all the fat jokes then? If he's never been fat in your lifetime."

"It was just something Mummy always used to say. I suppose I saw how much it upset him and picked it up. I was the younger brother, what else did I have?"

"Other than a big brother who got beaten on your behalf?"

"I know." Sherlock sat down on the steps, watching the fish in the pond. "These fish are all mine. Or at least descendents of the ones that were mine. I chose all of them. We went to some special place where they breed exotic fish. I was five. I picked the ten fattest, most orange fish in the shop and called them all Mycroft." Sherlock let out a bark of laughter that was borderline on turning into a sob.

"I would have killed you."

"Nicholas found out and made me rename them all. That's Horace." Sherlock pointed at an Orange fish with white speckles nearly a foot and a half long. The fish seemed to know he was been talked about as he steered himself closer to Sherlock's end of the pond. The fish had markings on his head that made him look like he had a handlebar moustache and a toupee.

"It suits him."

"That's what Nicholas said. Horace is the only one of the originals left now." Another reminder of everything ending.

"What were you running away from?" John fished in his pocket for a biscuit. He had taken to carrying biscuits with him, because when you were with Sherlock you never knew where the next meal was coming from. He broke a piece off and tossed it into the pond, where Horace gulped it down and looked hopefully up for more.

"I don't know. Responsibility? Duty? My family? This crumbling pile? History? All of it?"

"What if you were wrong?"

"Wrong ,John?" Sherlock said the word as though it filled his mouth with thistles.

"What if you weren't running from something? You were running towards something. Something that was always just over the next hill. Always just out of sight?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know." John threw the remains of biscuit into the pond. Horace gave his thanks by leaping from the water. Not bad for a very fat thirty year old fish. "But maybe it's time to stop running?"


	185. The Boy Who Died

Mycroft knew of only one moment in his life before now where he had felt quite so angry. And this anger scared him. It wasn't the same kind of anger he felt when dealing with the many awkward political situations he had come across in his life. It wasn't the same kind of anger that had burnt white hot and focussed his mind to a sharp needle point when Moriarty had decided to go after his family and friends. It wasn't even the frustrated anger he often felt when Sherlock was being particularly tedious. This was different.

It felt like someone had set fire to him and he was burning. He knew his face had probably gone that ugly red it always did when he got upset. He couldn't see. He couldn't think. Everything was wrong. The last time he had been able to do nothing. He had stood by and watched in silence as they had buried what he thought was his only chance at being happy, unable to say anything, unable to mourn. Bound by duty and family tradition and the unblinking gaze of society.

But now, he was Mycroft Holmes, the Man that Ran the World, and he could make them all pay. In more ways than they could ever imagine. Starting with his mother.

Arthur Mallin had explained, without pointing the finger at any one guilty party, the sad story of Augustus Holmes. The boy who died. His tiny body had been discovered by the Nanny of the time, a lady Mycroft didn't remember called Nanny Spencer. She had been "let go" after the incident. She had expressed her disbelief at the time, saying that Augustus had been perfectly well when he was put to bed the previous evening. The family doctor had attended and the cause of death had been recorded as heart failure. No one had questioned it at the time. No one had dared. A footman by the name of Marshall had been foolish enough to ask if there shouldn't be a post mortem and was dismissed by Rafael Holmes without wages or references and had never been heard of since. The household was instructed to go about its business as though nothing had happened. To Arthur Mallin's eternal guilt, that's what they all did. And the boy's body was buried in the churchyard, without ceremony, or headstone, in a forgotten corner.

"Did my brother have a heart condition?"

"Yes My Lord, he did."

"You've never told anyone else this?"

"No one. Lord Rafael made it quite clear that anyone speaking of it would be dealt with."

"I'm sure he did." He was going to lose it. Mycroft knew. His phenomenal temper, which he had inherited from his father, was about to break free from the restraints it was kept under and there was nothing he could do about it. It wasn't so much that the boy had died and no one had ever told them about him. It was the fact that his parents had covered it all up like some shameful secret. The family dogs had received better treatment than his own brother. His big brother. Every single faithful hound had a headstone out in the park. What did Augustus have? Mycroft's thought were cascading through his head. The first thing he was going to do was go down to that bloody churchyard and smash his father's tombstone to pieces. And probably shout at daddy's rotted corpse. And then he might piss on the grave just for good measure.

"Mallin. Why did you wait until now to tell me this?"

"I should have told you years ago Sir. But Lord Rafael made us all swear to silence. We were never to tell if we wanted our jobs and our lives. But that's the past. There's a future now. Young master Nicholas. I thought perhaps knowing the family medical history might help with his treatment." Mallin paused, perhaps seeing if Mycroft was the man he thought he was. "And also because I have stood by and watched you all these years, trying to do the right thing and please people who will never be satisfied. I think you, and master Sherlock should have the chance to be happy, however you choose, and damn what your mother thinks. I served your Grandfather gladly because he was a wonderful man and I always hoped your father would become a good man as well. He did not. But I felt I owed it to your Grandfather's memory to stay here. To be here for his Grandsons. And I hoped that one day you might want to come home to us."

"You kept the lighthouse for us? Mallin, what am I going to do?" Mycroft was still angry, but now it was the more familiar icy rage filling up his veins, numbing him, anesthetising him to the task ahead.

"What you always do. The right thing." And although he knew it was not entirely appropriate for a servant to do so, Mallin placed his arms around Mycroft's shoulders to comfort him. He was taller now of course, the shoulders were considerably wider and that red-gold of his hair was thinning, but Mallin supposed he would always think of the Sixteen year old boy he had found sobbing in his room, beyond consolation at the death of his first love. "Mycroft, you are not your father. And your Son is going to have a wonderful life because of you."

It was an hour later when Mycroft made the call to Molly Hooper at St Bart's, asking her for a special favour. She was of course delighted to accept. Mycroft placed a call to one of his people to send a special car to collect her. And then because he decided that Dr Hooper probably deserved more than the stilted one way traffic she got from Sherlock, he phoned Q-Branch and asked Jeremy Huggins to bring the necessary equipment to the house.

And then he ordered the exhumation.


	186. Graveside Manners

The grave was tucked away at the back of the Churchyard, where the holly bushes bent down almost to touch the ground. The grass around was overgrown, but the patch of grave, three feet square, was immaculate, as though it had been carefully tended by someone. There was no headstone as such, just a flat stone, carefully kept clean and polished, on which someone had lovingly placed a small bunch of flowers. Mycroft looked down at the grave, suddenly feeling very tall and very lonely.

And the men started digging.

The coffin was small. White originally but now stained with its years under the ground. Mercifully it had remained uncrushed. Mycroft looked at the tiny box that contained his elder brothers remains, And then at the gaping hole in the ground from which the off white coffin had been dislodged, like a decayed tooth. The two gravediggers had reverently placed the remains in the back of the government Landrover, wondering privately who the tall man was. The man who had stood silently and unmoving whilst they had dug down the five or so feet to reach the child's resting place. They had decided he must be some kind of Government Official. You always had Government Officials at things like this. He had given each of them a fifty pound note and thanked them quietly.

"I'm sorry Lord Sedgefield." The Vicar was stammering his apologies. "When the child's body was brought to me for burial, I knew who he was, but your father had forbidden him to be buried in the family plot. What else was I to do?" The Vicar lived at the benefice of the Lord of the Manor.

"Did the child...did my brother receive a proper burial?"

"Yes. As best as we could under the circumstances."

"And what name was he buried under?"

"Mr. Mallin was most insistent that I used his name. He said if he could do no more for the poor little mite he could at least allow him the dignity of a name. The boy was buried as Anthony Mallin. St Anthony is the patron saint of the lost."

"That was good of Mallin to do that."

"Yes. Mr Mallin and his wife were not blessed with children of their own. I think that is why he took especial care of the children at the manor."

Mycroft became suddenly aware of a tall presence standing next to him. He turned slightly to see his brother's cheekbones outlined in the dying light of the churchyard. The Vicar took that as his cue to leave.

"It's all secrets isn't it? Secrets and lies and ghosts." Sherlock prodded the loose earth with the toe of his shoe."Is it any wonder we ran away from it all? Is it any wonder we are still running?"

"I suppose not." Mycroft looked down once more at the hole; in the half light it looked impossibly deep.

"Thank you."

"What for?" Mycroft felt his brother's fingers very briefly squeeze his own.

"For keeping me out of an unmarked grave in this churchyard." Sherlock let go of Mycroft's hand as quickly as he had taken it. Then he walked out of the Churchyard never looking back. Mycroft continued to stare into the hole until it was perfectly dark. He closed his eyes and for a few moments was sure he could feel a warm hand on his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he was, of course, alone.


	187. Between Lying & Telling the Truth

Doctor Molly Hooper had performed autopsies on children before. They required a steady hand and a gentle detachment. You had to maintain an objective approach. She always took a deep breath before starting. And then she would quickly and thoroughly perform the task. Only once the final stitches were placed in autopsy incision would she allow herself a moment of reflection on the unfairness of such small and young people ending up in her mortuary.

It had been an unusual request, but Molly had been glad to do it, or at least glad that she was trusted with the task. In some way she felt as though she was helping. Mycroft had asked for her specifically. He could have got any one of any number of eminent pathologists. But he had asked for her.

The child's remains were little more than bone now. A few strands of connective tissue all that remained of the flesh. There would be DNA if they wanted it, from the bones. The coffin contained the moulded remains of a blanket, white, cellular. The cheap satin lining well on its way to disintegration. Molly set about the delicate task of removing the bones from the rest of the contents of the tiny coffin.

And then she saw it. Molly closed her eyes very briefly to remind herself that she was a doctor and she needed to remain detached. And then she opened her eyes and looked at the cracked Hyoid Bone of the two year old boy she was examining, and wondered if sometimes the truth wasn't best left buried.

Xx

Nicky had woken up in a strange room with dinosaurs smiling at him from the walls. The bed was old fashioned and creaky but the duvet was warm and snugly. Wordsworth looked sadly on from the pillow, across the room to another bed, empty and unmade. Nicky tried to remember how he got to be in bed. And then he remembered. His Daddy had put him there when he had got tired.

His Daddy. He smiled when he thought about it. He'd often wished that Mycroft was really his Daddy. Sometimes he had pretended he was. His Daddy who was better than anyone else's Daddy. And now it was true. And he supposed that made Sherlock his Uncle, which was not as good. Nicky suspected Sherlock didn't like him very much. But Sherlock was just worried that Mycroft couldn't love them both. It was the same reason why Sherlock didn't like Marcus. It was strange how sometimes very clever people could be quite so silly.

Nicky was broken out of his cosy musings by the sound of a car halting on the gravel. He hopped out of bed and peered out of the window, suddenly excited as he saw Marcus climbing out of the car. He wondered if Marcus knew that Mycroft was his Daddy and wondered if that made Marcus sort of his Daddy as well? Which wasn't bad when you considered he'd started the day with no daddy at all and now there was the possibility of having two.

Overcome with the excitement of it all and forgetting he had managed to wriggle out of his t-shirt in his sleep he grabbed Wordsworth and ran in the direction of downstairs.

Xx

Marcus Hatch had just been greeted by a rather grave faced Arthur Mallin. He had met the faithful butler on several occasions although granted never with a slightly sulky teenager in tow. Jason's mood had improved considerably when he saw the house with its sweeping drive, but now he was leaning moodily against an aspidistra and trying not to look overwhelmed by everything.

"I'm afraid Lord Sedgefield is attending to some important business Doctor Hatch. He left instructions to show you to your rooms and then if you would like to take tea in the garden room."

"Thank you Mallin." Marcus was about to say something to Jason along the lines of standing up straight when a small body launched itself at him from the stairs in a flurry of tiny limbs and Giraffe.

"Marcus!"

"Hello Nicky! Should you not be wearing more clothes?"

"I'll go and fetch Master Nicholas's dressing gown Sir." Mallin hurried away.

Marcus set the boy down on the hall carpet very aware that Jason was staring.

"Jason, this is Nicky, he's Mycroft's..."

"He's got a Mini-me! Oh My God, Dad, your boyfriend is Dr Evil!" Jason gestured towards Nicky, who immediately hid behind Marcus's leg.

"Jason he's seven. Be nice."

"I'm nearly eight!" Nicky mumbled into Marcus's trouser leg.

"Mycroft is his Guardian. Nicky, this is my son, Jason." Nicky peered around Marcus to the strange boy with black and white hair. He reminded Nicky of Sherlock. There was silence. Marcus was very glad when Mallin re-appeared carrying Nicky's Doctor Who dressing gown.

"Would you excuse me for a moment Sir, I will just take Master Nicholas to the television room and then I will show you to your rooms." Mallin hoisted Nicky aloft with a sprightliness that belied his years and carried the boy down the corridor.

"Dad?" Jason had left his post by the plant.

"Don't say it Jason."

"But Dad..."

"Jason, enough."

"But he's lying to you. You were so scared when he found out about me you thought he was going to have you melted down and turned into asphalt or something. And he's done the same thing. He's lying to you!"

"Young man, there is a very big difference between lying and not telling the truth." The tall man stood on the landing was silhouetted in the subtle lamplight. Jason thoroughly expected Mycroft Holmes to tell him to get out of his house or something. The man walked slowly down the stairs, his dark curls and sharp angular face revealing itself as the light changed. "Welcome to the Manor House, I am Sherlock Holmes, Lord Sedgefield's brother."

Marcus looked at Sherlock's face. The haunted serious face of a man who was paying penance in every breath he took.

"Sherlock? How is everything?" Marcus tried to sound pleased to see him but he actually felt rather sick.

"Well I would like to say things are at the point where they cannot possibly get any worse, but unfortunately..."

And then a shrill voice cut the air like a crystal chandelier being dropped.

"Sherlock! Who are these people?"

Sherlock's expression didn't change at all, but a vein pulsed noticeably in his temple.

"Hello Mother dear, how are you?"


	188. Mummy Dearest

"Who are these people Sherlock?" Lady Holmes repeated, looking at Marcus and Jason as though they were tradesmen come through the wrong door. Marcus shot Sherlock a pleading look, clearly asking him just for once to be a human being. Marcus needn't have worried.

"This is Surgeon Captain Marcus Hatch, mother, and his son Jason. They are guests of Mycroft for the weekend." Sherlock met his mothers stare. Her eyes were a pale watery blue colour, set back in her thin face, pale translucent skin stretched across her prominent cheekbones. She immediately reminded Marcus of Titania.

"Oh." She barely acknowledged Marcus before continuing. "And where is your brother?"

"He's attending to some business."

"Really? He seems to spend a lot of his time doing that. What is it this time?"

"I don't know. Yet." You could cut the hatred in the air with a knife.

"Well I daresay it isn't important. It never is. But Mycroft always tends to over dramatise. Are we expecting any more guests this weekend?"

"Lord Denborough and his fiancé will be joining us. And there might be one or two others. I haven't seen the entire guest list." It didn't take a genius to see what Sherlock was doing. Without actually lying to his mother he had failed to tell her any of the truth. Marcus was rather impressed. And hoping Jason wasn't taking notes. As if on cue, Arthur Mallin reappeared, with Henry, one of the footmen. Mallin paused for a fraction of a second before carrying on.

"M'lady, His Lordship didn't inform us that you would be arriving."

"I'm sure he didn't Mallin."

"Mallin, could you show Captain Hatch and his son to their rooms please?"

"Very good Sir." Marcus was rather grateful to be removed from the chilly presence of Lady Holmes.

Xx

Molly Hooper had never touched Mycroft Holmes before. He had always seemed too forbidding, too tall, too powerful. But now he was sitting down, head bowed, shoulders hunched, and he looked so very upset she couldn't help herself. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"And you're quite sure Doctor Hooper?"

"I'm Sorry. But yes. The body is of a male approximately two years old. The Hyoid bone is crushed. I would say it was perimortem. Just before he died. It's rather difficult with the lack of soft tissue but it does suggest the cause of death was suffocation, something heavy pressing down on the face and neck."

"I'm certain I can guess what."

"I can be more certain once I've run some further tests back at my lab. But I am certain this wasn't an accident. And also, there was no Post Mortem carried out originally. I'm so sorry Mr Holmes." Molly squeezed Mycroft's be-jumpered shoulder, wishing she could do more.

"It's hardly your fault. I asked for the truth. I can't very well complain when it is presented to me, just because I don't like it."

"Who was he?" Molly knew everything about the boy you could tell from his bones, but nothing about who he actually was.

"He's my brother. And they murdered him." Mycroft stood up; Molly was suddenly reminded of how very tall he was. Taller than Sherlock.

"You know who did this?" The question was largely rhetorical. Of course he knew.

"Yes. I do. And they are going to pay for it. Dearly." The look on Mycroft's face left Molly in no doubt that he meant it.

Xx

"...And I do wish you would have your hair cut properly." His mother's litany of disapproval hadn't finished, she was merely coming up for air. It didn't bother Sherlock too much as he wasn't actually listening. "I don't suppose you are any nearer to having a job? You can't live off of your inheritance forever you know? And i suppose you are still unattached?" She said it as though it was a particularly disgusting swear word.

"Actually Mother, Sherlock does have a job. He works with the Police." Mycroft had returned to the house, his anger overriding any worry his Mother's sudden and unexpected appearance might have caused.

"The Police? Oh dear."

Sherlock looked at his brother, a slight flick of the eyebrows and the slight widening of Mycroft's pupils were all the warning he needed. His brother was telling him silently to duck.

"Yes. The Police. He catches criminals. Like murderers for example."

"Really? Well isn't that exciting dear. I assume you are still pushing paper around Whitehall?" Lady Holmes knew exactly how to deal with her eldest son. "It isn't really doing your waistline any good is it? Don't you think your brother is looking a bit podgy Sherlock?" Divide and conquer. So simple.

"Actually I think he looks fine." Sherlock was entertaining a sick feeling in his stomach. "I'm just going to my room." Sherlock ran up the stairs. Two at a time, wondering if he could put enough distance between himself and his brother's impending eruption. Perhaps he should have stayed to help. But then what help did you offer a volcano?

"Mycroft darling, what's the matter?" Lady Holmes was trying a different tactic now. But there was something unnerving about her son now. He was a big imposing man, like his Grandfather, the eyes such a very cold blue. So very cold, and yet burning into her all the same.

"I know what you did! He was your son! Whether you did it yourself or father did it, it doesn't matter. You are guilty of not caring and I will see you get what you deserve for it."

"Oh." She paused for a moment. But there was no remorse. "It was a very long time ago. You don't have any proof. And not caring isn't a crime. There isn't a court in the land you could take it to" She smiled coldly at her son.

"Madam, get out of my house!"

"Mycroft? You..." But the rest of the sentence died on her lips as her legs gave way. Mycroft turned and saw Nicky standing wide eyed by the Elephant's foot umbrella stand. He looked down at his son's serious face, puzzling the old lady now collapsed on the floor and suddenly saw himself. Ignoring his mother's prone body, he held out his arms and Nicky immediately wrapped himself into Mycroft's embrace.

"Who is that Lady?"

"She's nobody." And Mycroft decided there and then, to make that statement true.


	189. Heartbeat

"John! My mother is here!" This was said with same panicked tones people usually said things like: _The Dam has burst or The Eighth Army has just broken through the Allied defences_. John promptly fell from his comfortable position on his bed and landed in a heap on the floor.

"That's a lot not good yes?"

"I think Mycroft may do something terrible."

"Like what?"

"This is Mycroft, the possibilities are infinite!"

"I thought he was Mummy's blue eyed boy and it was you that was the devil in disguise."

"No. She doesn't like either of us. She has to tolerate Mycroft because he's the Lord of the Manor and he tolerated her because, well she's our mother and he's a perfect gentleman. But it's all changed now."

"What's changed?"

"Mycroft's given up caring what Mummy thinks. This is going to be bad. It's going to be like one of those train crashes where you know what's going to happen but you just can't look away." Sherlock stretched himself out on the bed previously occupied by John, collapsed with the sheer weight of thoughts it seemed.

"So what do we do? Shall we go down and stop him, try to calm him down."

"I forgot. You've never seen Mycroft lose his temper have you John? I wished Nick was here, he was the only one who could ever calm Mycroft down." Sherlock was clenching and unclenching his right hand. He scrubbed at his eyes.

"Sherlock are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right John. A woman that makes Lucretia Borgia look like Florence Nightingale is downstairs right now annoying my brother. My brother who I have just discovered is a father. Which makes me an uncle. I don't know how to be an uncle. And there is a good chance that my parents are murderers. And that they killed their first born son. Why would I not be fine?"

"I'm going to need a better explanation for that lot. But right now I need you to take your medication and then we are going downstairs to help Mycroft." John shook the correct doses of medication from the bottles and handed them to Sherlock. His forehead was cold and clammy, he needed to calm down. The pills would help. Sherlock swallowed and sank forward against John's chest.

Xx

Sherlock and John saw the Dowager Countess lying prone in the hallway.

"He's killed her! I knew it." Sherlock ran down the stairs, jumping the last three, with John fast behind him. John quickly checked the pulse of the thin lady who reminded him of a bird of prey.

"She's not dead. She's just fainted." John moved her in to a more comfortable position. Sherlock processed the scene.

"Sherlock...?" Lady Holmes muttered weakly. "Sherlock... I saw your brother...small...child..."

"You saw Nicky?" John assumed Lady Holmes had been not quite introduced to her grandchild.

"Nicholas is dead... Rafael saw t... Sherlock?" Her vision cleared and she became more alert, for the first time realising that her youngest son was standing indifferently at the foot of the stairs and she was being tended to by a stranger.

"It's all right I'm a doctor." John said brightly.

"Sherlock, who is this?" Lady Holmes regarded John's rumpled t-shirt with some distaste.

"This is John Watson mother. He's a Doctor." And perhaps realising that now nothing quite hurt like the truth, he added. "He's also my boyfriend."

But before John could confirm or deny it, Lady Holmes had fainted again.

xx

Nicky could hear Mycroft's heart beating a soft thud-thud from where his head rested on his father's chest, pillowed against the softness of his jumper. It was turning out to be a very strange weekend and it was only Friday. Very strange as he was sure it was getting quite late and no one had mentioned anything about going to bed yet. They were into the second episode of his new Doctor Who box set. Mycroft didn't even like Doctor Who, but he was still sitting with Nicky. In fact at one point he had been holding onto him so tightly Nicky had been forced to ask him to stop before he was squished. Now he was snuggling up, Mycroft's arm across him. Nicky felt safe and protected. And if monsters were going to make a volcano erupt, it was all fine, because his Daddy could stop them all. His Daddy was better than the Doctor because he was real.


	190. Keeping Secrets

"Mycroft?" Marcus peered around the door of the television room. Mycroft was blankly staring at the screen with a sleeping Nicky draped over him. It was a shame for Nicky, he was such a bright, sparky little boy, but he spent so much time exhausted.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here to meet you. Some things have come up." Mycroft moved carefully, not wanting to wake the boy.

"It's quite all right." Marcus sat on the sofa, looking down at Nicky. "I remember when Jason was this cute." Marcus stroked Nicky's hair very gently.

"It's a shame they have to grow up really."

"Yes. But this little guy will be fine. He's going to be smart and handsome just like his dad." Marcus looked significantly at Mycroft.

"So you know then?"

"Yes."

"And you're not angry that I didn't tell you?"

"No, not really. I'm sad you don't trust me, but I understand why you don't. You want to keep him safe and in your world the way to do that is to keep him a secret. That's what you do."

"I am very tired of keeping secrets. The longer I do it the more I think they are like rabbits. Secrets beget secrets until nothing is real; nothing is the truth, just versions of reality, versions of truthfulness. It is very tedious."

Marcus reached over the top of Nicky, who seemed to be perfectly happy to continue sleeping, to stroke the side of Mycroft's face. His fingers scratched against the rough stubble.

"You need a shave. Unless you're thinking of growing a beard?"

"Do you think I should?"

"Don't grow a beard daddy, it will be all tickly." Nicky mumbled in his sleep, before turning and nuzzling against Marcus.

"Well there's the verdict then." Marcus adjusted the cushion slightly and moved Wordsworth to a more comfortable position.

Xx

Lady Holmes had been removed to the Dow House on the other side of the estate where her Ladies Maid could attend her. Sherlock really didn't fancy dealing with his mother's fainting fits all evening.

"So that was your mother?"

"Yes."

"Wow! That explains almost everything." John had always thought Sherlock was exaggerating.

Sherlock led them through to a room John assumed was a study, the walls were hung with yet more portraits of Holmes past. A cold eyed man looked down at them from one wall.

"My father." Sherlock pointed at the portrait and John was struck with how very unlike the rest of the Holmes and even his two Sons, Rafael Holmes was. Whilst the man was obviously tall and slim there was something odd about his bone structure, he was neither elegant like Sherlock nor powerfully built like Mycroft. His hair was prematurely grey and his face was cruel. The artist had captured an unpleasant glint in the eyes. John shuddered. The eyes were the same colour as Sherlock's, the pale mercury colour, but unlike Sherlock's, there wasn't an ounce of humanity in them. Sherlock poured John a brandy.

"This is why I never come here John. I don't want to be reminded that I could be like them." He gestured to the walls and then flicked his eyes over the desk. He picked up a folder, glancing at its contents briefly.

"Should you be reading that?"

"Anything Mycroft doesn't want me to see is locked away in the safe. Which he thinks is secure. Which it isn't. The code is Nicholas's birthday. Tedious."

"How did your father die Sherlock?" John continued to look at the painting.

"No one knows, not really. They found him in his flat in London. Dead. In the end they recorded a verdict of death by natural causes. Probably a heart attack."

"And you never wanted to find out?"

"I think he was killed." Sherlock looked at another file on the desk, which John recognised as an autopsy folder. "Here, read for yourself."

John flicked through the file, all the usual things, no marks on the body, tox reports, stomach contents. He looked at Rafael Holmes last meal, Brandy and Egg Custard. John set aside his glass of brandy.

"I see your father had a sweet tooth?"

"Not really, although he was rather keen on Mrs Patmore's Egg Custard Tarts. They used to send them up to him when he was in London." And then Sherlock stopped his rummaging on his brother's desk. His face went blank, eyes concentrating on things unseen, the doors of the mind palace thrown open.

"Sherlock? Sherlock what's the matter?" But Sherlock wasn't hearing John. He stood, his face contorted with rage and ripped his father's portrait from the wall, throwing it against the fireplace and splitting the canvas. A few seconds later the door of the study opened and Mycroft was silhouetted in the doorway.

"Nicholas didn't have anything wrong with his heart did he?" Sherlock looked at his brother. His terribly clever big brother who knew everything.

"No Sherlock."

Sherlock felt his stomach rising up inside him as he realised just how very good his brother actually was at keeping secrets.


	191. Shark in the Custard

John asked again. He didn't care if they thought he was stupid, he needed it clarifying in his head.

"Nicholas Garrideb was murdered? And it was your father that did it?"

"Yes." Mycroft was staring at the flickering fire in the grate. John sensed he was trying very hard to remain calm.

"Why? What possible reason could there be for killing a 16 year old boy?" John was rather glad Mycroft had handed round the scotch.

"It was my fault." Mycroft said simply. "I had an argument with my father about it."

"When did you have an argument with Father?" Sherlock was slumped over a chair in the corner of the room, sitting in the shadows.

"He came to school and took me out to dinner. And he told me that I was to end my friendship with Nicholas or he would end it for me. I had a duty to continue the family line. I had a duty to marry. There were certain expectations placed upon me. And whilst I was perfectly at liberty to carry on with Nicholas as a distraction that was all he could ever be. Father thought he was being generous."

"Why didn't you just tell him no?"

"I did. I told him that I was going to spend the rest of my life with Nicholas because I loved him. Father just laughed at me. I put what I wanted above everything else. I could have told Nick to leave me alone and he'd still be alive. But instead, I put what I wanted above keeping him safe and he paid for it. And I'm still paying for it. It was my fault he died."

"But the autopsy? It said it was death by natural causes."

"Oh yes, the autopsy. A mysterious heart condition that had been undetected for sixteen years? One of father's friends did the report. There was no autopsy, Nick's body didn't have the incision. At the time there was nothing I could do, I was still at school. But later, when I'd had time to think about it I realised where all the facts pointed. My father. Whether he'd done it himself or got someone else to do it, it didn't matter. I had no proof. Just the deductions I had made."

"Couldn't you have gone to the Police? The authorities?" The idea of Mycroft helpless was a new one to John.

"Father was the authorities. It seemed very generous of him to allow Nick to be buried in the family plots. Until you realise that they can only be dug or exhumed with the permission of the Lord of the manor. They couldn't cremate him, Nick's mother was Catholic. That was the next safest thing."

"Who killed him? Who killed father?" There was a pause as Sherlock tried to read his brother's unreadable face.

"I wished I could say it was me. I had a gun. I was going to shoot him in the head. When I got to his flat in London he was already dead. I left him, naked on his bed, laying in his own filth. He didn't deserve any dignity. Of course there was an investigation, but they never found anything. They concluded that he'd had a seizure whilst engaging in some kind of sexual activity and left it at that." It was strange how very calm Mycroft was. John found it rather unnerving. Sherlock was still, quiet, the expression on his face far away as he searched his memories. This was a mystery to glorious for Sherlock's mind to ignore.

In Sherlock's mind there were images of his childhood. Grainy, parts missing where they had been unsuccessfully deleted. A green eyed boy laughing in the snow. Mycroft crying, sobbing hysterically and shouting with a ruined voice. A man with eyes like his standing at a graveside smiling cruelly to himself. Mrs Patmore making Egg Custard tarts. Sherlock helping her. Mrs Patmore smiling as she reached for the Nutmeg.

"Nutmeg!" Sherlock shouted it, making everyone jump.

"Nutmeg?" John brushed his spilt whisky from his trousers.

"Nutmeg." Mycroft said it with a finality and smiled at his brother. "Of course."

In the corridor outside the study, Arthur Mallin slipped quietly back into the shadows and through one of the servants doors back to the kitchen where he found Mrs Patmore putting the finishing touches to a steak and kidney pie. She looked up at him, her milky eyes seeing nothing and everything.

"So." She said, brushing egg onto the pie crust. "They finally worked it out then?"


	192. Daybreak

When Marcus Hatch had woken up at six in the morning the first thing he had realised was that he was alone. The other side of the bed was empty, cold and un-rumpled. You didn't need a whole lot of deductive reasoning to know Mycroft hadn't come to bed the previous night. Marcus had walked in on an intense discussion taking place in the study and whilst Mycroft had given him the salient points he sensed he was far from knowing everything. Marcus was considering getting up when there was a shy knock at the door.

"Come in?" The door was carefully pushed open to reveal a small boy and his giraffe.

"Where's Mycroft?" It seemed that Nicky had recovered his bounce after a good night's sleep.

"I don't know. He wasn't here when I woke up."

"Oh!" Nicky perched himself on the side of the bed, setting Wordsworth down carefully near the footboard. "I came to give him a hug."

"Can I have his hug instead?" Marcus smiled, remembering when Jason was at an age where early morning hugs had been acceptable.

"You can have your own hug." Nicky bounced along the bed and threw his arms around Marcus's neck.

"You give good hugs!"

"Mycroft...My Daddy says that too."

"Well he's right." Marcus shifted himself up the pillows a little more so that Nicky could snuggle in to his side. "Do you like that he's your Daddy."

"Yes." For a moment the bright green eyes darkened, just the way Mycroft's blue ones always did when he was thinking. "I'd rather have him as My Daddy than anyone else in the whole world. Does it hurt?"

Marcus was slightly taken aback by the change of topic.

"Does what hurt?"

"Where they cut off your leg." Nicky was looking down at the very obvious absence of limb outlined by the duvet.

"No, not now. It did when they first amputated. And I thought I could feel my toes for a while, even though they weren't there anymore."

"Like ghost toes?"

"Yes I suppose so." Marcus smiled, wondering if this was what Mycroft was like as a child. "Is Wordsworth all right on his own?"

"He's fine. He's just always sad when he comes here." The Giraffe sagged against the footboard. "He misses the other Nicholas."

Marcus assumed that Mycroft had told his small charge about the dead boy. Probably not all the details, just that Wordsworth had once belonged to him.

"Poor old Giraffe. Just as well you're looking after him now then isn't it?"

"Yes. He likes me, but I'm not quite as good as the real thing. It's like you and Matthew." Nicky was thoughtfully patting the bedclothes just below Marcus's knee. Marcus looked at him. The old eyes in the young face were full of questions. Marcus assumed that Mycroft had mentioned Matthew at some point, but even so, he couldn't help but shiver. From the bottom of the bed, Wordsworth the Giraffe looked on.

Xx

Sherlock had left John sleeping peacefully in the Blue Room and had wandered around the house until he had found himself, rather predictably in his childhood bedroom. The bedroom where all traces of him had been removed. Sherlock sat on the window seat, staring out into the grounds as the night gave way to the breaking dawn. It was different in the country. Not like the dawn in London at all, the light had no tall buildings and monuments to play with, it just spread its fingers over the horizon and laid the day like a blanket across the ground.

Sherlock watched, trying to string the fractured memories of his childhood into a series of events that made sense. But nothing made sense. Not anymore.

Xx

He had thought about going to bed around five o'clock, but it seemed fairly pointless. It wasn't as though he would sleep anyway and in a few hours more guests would arrive. And in a few hours he would have to deal with his mother. Once and for all. Mycroft should have realised that she knew all along. He supposed somewhere at the back of his mind he had guessed. She must have known, but she had kept silent, especially once Rafael had died. It was a terrible thing to know your mother was afraid of you. And Mycroft thoroughly intended her to be scared now. Her involvement in the death of her eldest son , however complicit had resulted in Mycroft having to be the heir. And in doing that, they had also sealed Nicholas's fate as well. There could be no forgiveness but there might be an end to it.

Mycroft watched the car pull into the driveway at half past six. Stephen Gray's powder blue MG. It seemed a ridiculous car for such a big man. Stephen Levered himself out of the vehicle, he had said he would be arriving in time for breakfast, with Jonathan and Charlie following later. Mycroft continued to watch as Mallin, dressed immaculately, appeared to meet him. The old butler gave a few words of greeting, his back to where Mycroft stood unobserved at the window. And then the strangest thing happened. Stephen Gray, those pale eyes of his bright in the morning light, bowed solemnly to Arthur Mallin, who placed a hand on the bigger man's head as if giving him a benediction.


	193. Genetics

Molly Hooper had been up all night. Once she had returned to London with the remains of Augustus Holmes she had felt compelled to begin work straight away. The facilities that Mycroft had set up were more than adequate of course, but in the lab at Bart's she had access to a whole lot of equipment that would make things easier.

"Jeremy?" She shook the sleeping man's shoulder gently. He had been instructed by Mycroft to stay with her and give her anything she needed, and he had eventually fallen asleep on the sofa in her office at four in the morning.

"Doctor Hooper?" He rolled off of the sofa, taking a few moments to stretch himself out and stand up. He was quite tall, perhaps not as tall as Mycroft, more Sherlock's height really. And Molly couldn't help but notice how very handsome he was, his face a perfect aquiline and framed by his floppy dark hair.

"Sorry. I've got the results I needed now. Could you take me back to The Manor? I really need to explain this is person."

"Yes of course. Would you like breakfast first?" He flashed her a dazzling smile.

"That would be lovely."

Xx

"Good Lord, you look like crap!" Stephen set his bag down in the hallway and looked at Mycroft.

"Good Morning to you as well." Mycroft knew he really needed a shave and a shower.

"The designer stubble suits you."

"Thank you. It's getting shaved off very shortly." Whatever Stephen thought of this, he wasn't given a chance to say as the conversation was interrupted by the noisy clattering of seven-nearly-eight-year-old on the stairs.

"Stephen!" It seemed that Nicky had woken up a little bit hyperactive.

"Hello Nicky!" Stephen caught the small boy as he launched himself off of the bottom step.

"Where's Charlie?" Nicky peered down from Stephen's embrace at the bag on the floor.

"He'll be here later." Nicky squirmed around in Stephen's arms so he was looking at Mycroft.

"I'm going to be Charlie's big brother. I'm going to look after him. That's what big brothers do." It was said with such conviction it made Mycroft's breath catch in his throat.

"I know you are." Most people would never have caught the slight quaver in Mycroft's voice as he said it. Stephen did.

"Nicky, why don't we let Mycroft go and have a shower? I've got something here I think you'll like." Stephen set the boy down and pulled a Technic Lego set from his bag. Nicky's eyes went wide and he made a happy little squeak. Mycroft shot Stephen a look of gratitude as he made his way up stairs to the relative sanctuary of his room.

Xx

Molly watched the towers of the manor loom above her as the car pulled up the driveway. When she had been little she had always dreamed of living in a house like this, with towers and tall trees and a sweeping driveway. Like a fairy princess with a handsome prince. But as she looked now she was struck by the realisation that it was all well and good living in the fairy tale, but you had to put up with the wicked witches and big bad wolves. And whilst every story had an ending, it wasn't always a happy one.

Yesterday she had been able to tell Mycroft Holmes how his little-big brother had died. How he had been murdered. Today she could tell him the probable why.

"I noticed some anomalies in the child's skull." Molly was addressing a room containing Mycroft and Sherlock as well as John Watson and Marcus Hatch. Somehow she felt like a student being asked to do her viva again. "And I was able to extract some DNA from the soft tissue that was preserved. From that I was able to run the relevant chromosome tests and the results are quite conclusive. In addition to some abnormal development which would indicate the presence of a heart condition, Augustus Holmes had Down's Syndrome."

"Thank you Doctor Hooper." Mycroft Holmes stood and looked out of the window. In the silence the sound of Nicky's excited voice carried from another room.

Xx

The large Chauffer driven car containing Martha Hudson made stately progress up the driveway, and the closer it got to the manor the more nervous she became. She tried to dismiss it. After all it was years ago. So many years of silence and secrets. Surely it was only her that remembered? And who would even recognise her after all this time?

The car halted and the door was opened. She looked up at him, his hair was grey now, the face lined, the body heavier. He looked down at her and he smiled, bowing his head slightly.

"Welcome home, Nanny Spencer." Arthur Mallin held out his hand and helped her from the car.


	194. A Chat Over Tea

Mycroft had just poured roughly a pint of Maple Syrup onto his bacon and pancakes. His third lot of bacon and pancakes. The first two lots had been shovelled mechanically into his mouth whilst he stared out the window of the dining room from his seat at the head of the table. Behind him on the wall, Gabriel Holmes, Mycroft and Sherlock's grandfather looked on.

Sherlock looked up from his untouched breakfast. He was seated at the opposite end of the table to Mycroft. Usually he would tell anyone who would listen he was sat there in order to be as far away from his brother as possible. Today he was silent.

Further down the table from Mycroft, Stephen was helping Nicky with the removal of the top of his boiled egg and Jason Hatch was peering out from under his fringe and prodding his breakfast with some suspicion. John Watson was unsuccessfully chivvying Sherlock to eat some toast and Marcus was watching Mycroft with grave concern etched into the scars on his face.

"Mycroft?"

"Hmmm?"

"Mycroft!" Marcus put a hand gently on Mycroft's forearm. Mycroft turned to look at him, the blue eyes snapping back into the room.

"You're going to make yourself sick. And give yourself a headache."

Mycroft looked down at his plate and dropped his fork. Without saying anything he left the table leaving the bacon floating in a syrupy grave.

Xx

In the kitchen, two ladies of a certain age were deep in conversation.

"So they know now?"

"Some of it. But not all. I'm not sure if the worst isn't yet to come." Mrs Patmore busied herself with rolling out the marzipan.

"Do they know about their father?" Mrs Hudson sipped her tea carefully.

"They know he was taken care of. I think Mycroft will work it out first. Mind like a bacon slicer that boy!"

"And Arthur saw to it all?"

"Oh yes. You see Gabriel Holmes knew his son was no good. Clever yes, but no good. Knew that he'd get all twisted up with that brain of his until he did something bad. And he made Arthur swear to look after his Grandchildren. Arthur failed once, twice really if you think about poor Nicholas. Now he was a lovely boy. But Arthur was determined not to let Mycroft ruin what he had left. He'd got some notion in his head he was going down to London and confront his father about Nicholas, he'd had a gun. He wouldn't have got two streets before Rafael's people caught him. And can you imagine what prison would have done to him?" They were interrupted in their conversation by Stephen Gray appearing in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Good morning Mrs Hudson, I didn't realise you were here! Mrs Patmore, do you have any HP Sauce?"

"On the shelf above the saucepans."

Stephen found the bottle and hurried back up the corridor.

"Now he was a bit of luck." She waved her rolling pin at Stephen's broad back.

"Stephen?"

"Yes. I know it's hard to see it now, but he was quite beautiful when he was younger, he was that tall when he was eighteen, black hair and those silver eyes. Rafael Holmes didn't stand a chance."

"Stephen killed Rafael Holmes?"

"No. Arthur would never have asked the boy to do that. Stephen just helped him along a bit." She wrapped the marzipan around the sponge. "Funny thing Nutmeg. Some people are allergic to it and come out in a rash if they have too much, some people hallucinate. And some hallucinate badly. It's not really enough to kill you, unless you're engaged in some sort of strenuous activity. And have a heart condition that you think no one knows about. But of course, Arthur knew." She dusted the finished Battenburg with icing sugar.

"I knew what?" Mallin had appeared from the side door leading to the wine cellar. He smiled at Mrs Hudson. "That Rafael was a hypocrite who didn't deserve to have children like Mycroft and Sherlock? Or that he had a heart condition and a weakness for big lads bearing egg custards? Or that I knew ultimately what the cost would be? Unfortunately: Yes. To all of it."


	195. Remembering Everything

Nicky was perched somewhat precariously on the top of the wooden ladder steps in the Library. Sherlock decided that in the series of events that had unfurled so far that weekend the one most likely to have Mycroft blowing up a small country would be his son falling off of a ladder.

"Nicky, I think you should come down from there."

"All the good books are on the top shelf. I can't reach." He pointed to an old leathery book with _Animal Dissection_ in gold on the spine.

"That was one of my favourites as well." Sherlock gently lifted the boy from his perch and reached up for the book. He opened the book at a rather gruesome picture of a Gorilla. Nicky's eyes widened for a moment.

"It's Victorian. They thought the best way to find out how things worked was to cut them open. It still is really."

"They cut me open to find out how I was broken. Is that the same thing?"

"I suppose it is in a way. Yes. It's all research."

"But they usually do that with dead people. To find out how they died?"

"Yes." Sherlock was holding very tightly to the reins of the conversation, he really didn't want to incur his brother's displeasure.

"I don't want them to cut me up when I die, but Mummy says that if they do they might be able to help other people. I suppose that would be all right? Doctor Hooper could do it, she'd be nice to me even when I'm dead. Daddy doesn't know. He'd get upset about it." Nicky turned the page to a picture of a frog, fully dissected. Sherlock looked at his nephew. It was a strange feeling to be sitting with Mycroft's son, the son he had named after his dead friend. He looked a lot like his father in many ways and Sherlock was suddenly struck by the thought that if he had been the older brother, what might have become of both of them.

"Sherlock? You're squishing me!" And Sherlock looked down to find he was hugging his small nephew very tightly.

Xx

Mycroft remembered everything that had ever happened to him. Every event. Every conversation. Every moment of every day for almost the entirety of his life. It would make a lesser man mad. In some ways it was why he had resorted to cutting off his emotions. It was one less thing to remember. And now he thought on all of it. Each shovelful of dirt that had been heaped into Nick's grave, the sand and stones and earth until the coffin and its precious contents had been gone from sight. Each shovelful that had been removed from the grave of Augustus Holmes until the tiny white coffin was revealed. A discoloured pearl in the darkness.

He remembered every word his mother had ever said to him. She had never once said she loved him. There had been love in this house, but never from his parents. It had been Mallin who had taught him to ride his first bicycle. It had been Mrs Mallin who had wiped away the blood and tears from his face when he had been beaten. It had been Mrs Patmore who knew what his favourite cake was and that he didn't like tomatoes or asparagus. It had been Nicholas who had held him tightly in the back of the car when his arm had been broken.

The one thing Mycroft would not remember though was his Grandfather. Gabriel Mycroft Holmes had died shortly after his second Grandson was born, and shortly before his eldest Grandson was executed. He had held baby Mycroft just once, sat in his armchair in the room that was now Mycroft's study, noting the wispy red curls and copper lashes and wishing the boy better luck with his temper than he'd had. And very briefly the baby had opened his eyes and Grandson and Grandfather had looked at each other. Just once.

"You my darling boy will be King of them all." Those were the only words Gabriel had ever said to Mycroft in their short acquaintance. And Mycroft didn't remember them.

What Mycroft did remember, and had no idea why was a smell. The smell of cigars and lavender and oranges. Strangely it was why he found the Diogenes Club so appealing, when he could sit in one of the leathery chairs with no one bothering him and allow the familiar strange scent to wash over him. He had no idea it was the scent of his Grandfather.

Mycroft looked at Gabriel's portrait. He'd probably been a few years older than Mycroft was now, elegantly dressed in black, with his red hair turning to snow. One hand clutched an ornate walking cane, reminding Mycroft of his own umbrella, the detail was amazing, almost photographic. Right down to the ring on Gabriel's finger. It was an unusual design and Mycroft wondered what had happened to the ring. Perhaps his Grandfather had been buried with it? He looked more closely.

The gold ring was large, a signet style, the background silver, cut with a cross, and a red rose. Fit for a King.

Mycroft remembered everything that had ever happened to him. Sometimes he wished he could forget it all. He rang the bell and a few moments later Arthur Mallin appeared in the library.

"Yes My Lord."

"Mallin, please could you ask Mr. Gray to join us? And then if you would be so good as to tell me the truth you've been hiding all these years."

"Very good My Lord." Mallin bowed as he left the room.

Mycroft turned back to the portrait of his Grandfather, a just for a moment thought he caught the faintest scent of cigars in the air.


	196. What the Butler Saw

Stephen Gray seated himself with his back to the window. It was a clever move as it cast him into shadow with the light behind him. Not that Mycroft really needed to see his face. The uncomfortable set of his shoulders was quite enough. Arthur Mallin stood, waiting.

"Mallin, please sit down." Mycroft shifted in his seat, stretching his long legs al little.

"As you wish My Lord." Arthur Mallin sat in the empty chair opposite Mycroft.

"Mallin I think we've gone beyond the need for the subservient butler act now."

"Very well My Lord."

"So who wants to start?"

"I do." Sherlock had appeared from a door concealed behind an antique bookshelf. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Must you always be quite so dramatic Sherlock?"

"What is the point of having a house full of secret passages and doors if you never use them?"

"Can't argue with that!" Stephen leant forward a little.

"You've been here before." It was a statement not a question. Sherlock looked at the big man and smiled. "Several years ago. You know where all the rooms are without asking but get thrown by the layout of the furniture. When you walked in here you went to sit over there, where the sofa used to be."

"Guilty as charged."

"Stephen. I think it best to allow me to explain everything." Arthur Mallin had stood and moved behind Stephen's chair where he placed his hands on the big man's shoulders.

"Yes Master." Stephen bowed his head in deference to the old butler.

"Master?" Sherlock collapsed into the migratory sofa next to his brother. "There's always something!" Mycroft gave him a sour look before locking his gaze on to Mallin.

"I assume we are in the presence of the Grand-Master of the Brotherhood of the Knights of the Rose?"

"You are My Lord."

"And that my Grandfather, Gabriel Holmes, was somehow involved with the order?"

"He was." A small smile played across Mallin's lips.

"So. Tell me." It was early in the day but Mycroft reached for the Whisky.

"I was promised to the order when I was born." Arthur Mallin began. "And when I was eighteen I was charged with the duty of protecting the life and family of Gabriel Holmes. It was a lifetime appointment. I was ordered to protect the bloodline at all cost. A duty that I have regrettably failed in over the years. As he lay dying your Grandfather sent for me and he made me swear that I would protect his Grandchildren, even if it meant killing Rafael. He was a very wise and kind man, your Grandfather. He placed his trust in me with his last breath. He knew his own son was no good you see. And he knew that when he died and all that power and money transferred to Lord Rafael, he would become a monster. Rafael was cold. Heartless. Like ice."

At that Sherlock looked pointedly at his brother.

"I don't mean he kept his emotions to himself. I don't mean he cut himself off from being hurt. I mean he was dead inside. When you looked into his eyes they were dead. The only person he ever loved was himself. Everyone else was a means to an end. He had no qualms about killing his first born child because the boy wasn't perfect. I don't think poor little Augustus would have lived long at any rate, but he was never given the chance. But we managed to keep you safe. And master Sherlock when he came along, although that was a challenge in itself. You didn't make it easy."

"Sorry." Sherlock mumbled, obviously still processing this new data input.

"We did a good job for a while. But a man like Rafael, you have to watch all the time. He was surrounded by people just as nasty and just as ambitious as him and just as willing to do his bidding. We lost sight of him just once. And it cost young Nicholas Garrideb his life. "

"How? How did he do it?" Mycroft took a long sip of whisky. Sherlock thought his brother sounded very far away.

"Our best guess was a quick acting Neurotoxin. There were a few similar deaths reported around the same time, notably Major Sholto from the foreign office. Sudden, unexplained heart failure and nothing registering on a toxicology report. It was finally traced to a gang from the far east. Administered through a blow pipe. A tiny needle laced with poison."

"But why Nicholas? Why did he have to die?"

"Oh Mycroft, you are so clever and yet the one thing you can't see, that you can't work out, is your own brilliance. Your father was so jealous of you to begin with. Both of you really. Even at an early age you were cleverer than he'd ever be. And then he got scared of you. He was suddenly faced, not with a shy chubby little boy who lived in his own private world, but a nearly grown man, physically bigger than him, mentally better than him and morally complete. You were his father all over again and he was frightened. And the only way he could see to stop you and to stop the fear was to damage you. And he did that by taking what you loved. He thought that by ripping out your heart like that you would become like him. Which just showed how very little he knew."

"So Nicholas died because I loved him?"

"Yes. But don't for one moment regret that love." The Old Butler's face was heavily lined in the sunlight coming through the window. Timeless. "We managed to keep Sherlock safe. Rafael didn't see him as a threat."

"That's actually quite insulting!" Sherlock scowled in his chair.

"And it saved your life. I had given Rafael so many chances to change his ways. To show remorse. He didn't and so I made good the promise I had sworn to your grandfather." Mallin looked at Stephen.

"And that's where I come into this sad little tale. I was eighteen, like The Master, I had been promised to the order as a child. And it was my duty to obey." He paused, as if recalling some long forgotten fact. "He wasn't meant to die. Just to hallucinate and be caught in a compromising position. Back then the Homosexuality laws meant you had to be 21 to be legal. It would have been a terrible scandal. I was under instruction to deliver the cakes from Mrs Patmore and then give him whatever else he wanted. Which I did."

"You shagged my father to death?" There was almost a note of admiration in Sherlock's voice. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'm good, but I'm not that good. He collapsed in the bathroom. I put him into bed and called The Master. He was still alive when I left his flat."

"He begged me. He spent the last moments of his life begging. I think for the first time in his life he saw me. Not as some faithful family retainer, he actually saw who I was. And he saw what he had done. I showed him your Grandfather's ring and I told him that his sentence had already been passed. I was his executioner. And I was proud to do it."

There was silence broken only by the ticking of Mycroft's pocket watch. His Grandfather's pocket watch.

"The one thing I do not understand is how the Grand-Master of an order like The Brotherhood comes to be protecting a minor Lord and his family. That hardly seems a sensible use of resources." Mycroft already knew the answer. Sherlock was sure of it. But this was one of those times when he wanted to hear it as well. "The ring has been passed down through generations. You can see it on all these portraits. Yet it didn't go to my father. Nor has it come to me. My Grandfather was obviously high up in the order, yet not the Grand-Master. So what is the final secret?"

"Your Grandfather loved you very much. He would have been so very proud of you. Of both of you. Gabriel Holmes, Lord Sedgefield, was a direct descendant of a Knight of the Grail. Only two bloodlines survive. Yours and one other."

Both Mallin and Stephen looked uncomfortable under the penetrating gaze of Mycroft and Sherlock. Blue and Grey both burning with the curious inner fire. Mallin's gaze shifted to the fireplace, above which a shield, probably older than the house, was hung. The Sedgefield Crest. A blood red background. A white dragon. A sword. A cross. And a cup. And the family motto "Only the Pure of Heart."

Mallin stepped forward reaching into his pocket and handing Mycroft the ring. The ancient signet ring worn by generations before him. Mycroft turned it over in his palm a few times before slipping it onto the index finger of his right hand.

"My Lord." Mallin bowed his head solemnly to Mycroft whose color had drained to deathly white.

"My Lord." Stephen stood and then bowed.


	197. Forgetting Billy Marshall

Jason had never been in a house like this before. Had never slept in a room like the one he had been shown to the previous evening. Had never been referred to as "Master Jason" and told that if there was anything he wanted he simply needed to ring a bell and a servant would fetch it for him. It should have been brilliant. But Jason was feeling increasingly uneasy. He was fairly sure that his presence was tolerated only because Mycroft was shagging his dad. He knew they were at it because he had been woken up by them on three occasions. Which was just wrong.

Especially at their age.

Jason walked down another wood panelled corridor, which looked very much like all the other wood panelled corridors he had walked down. He was beginning to feel a little bit lost. And he was getting rather creeped out by all the pictures on the walls. Stern looking red headed gentlemen in tweed and various uniforms. Striking ladies in flouncy dresses and strange hats. He peered into another room, this one was painted a delicate blue, with ornate furniture and a bed with one of those Chinese canopy things. It looked like it ought to be a lady's room. Jason seriously hoped it didn't belong to the old bat he had met the previous evening. The one who had looked at his hair and his tatty Converse as though he'd just been scraped off of a toilet seat.

There was a portrait hanging above the bed which caught his eye. Jason pushed his fringe out of his eyes to look at it properly.

"You are beautiful." He smiled at the painting. The lady in the portrait seemed to smile back. She was quite young. Maybe twenty-eight or twenty-nine. And she was the most beautiful woman Jason had ever seen in his short life. Her eyes were very blue, but shone with an inner warmth, and her hair was raven black, brushed back from her face and curling around it. She sort of looked like Sherlock, but there was something else in her face, the way she smiled that reminded Jason of Mycroft. _Lady Angelica Holmes. Beloved Wife of Gabriel_. Jason read the small brass plaque at the bottom of the frame. Jason followed her gaze which looked out of the window and across the open countryside beyond the gardens. Almost as though someone had decided she'd like the view. Outside the ornate gardens looked chilly and cold in the autumn light.

Jason looked down onto the terrace below, white furniture huddled in a corner and a few pots of shrubs and plants lurking like delinquent teenagers outside a chip shop. From above, the terrace itself was quite ornate. A pattern of coloured flagstones radiating outwards.

Radiating outwards from a huge round stone centre piece sunk into the surrounding area.

Xx

Nicky had moved on from his Technic Lego Set and was concentrating on the CSI facial reconstruction kit that Molly had bought him. It was quite good really. You got a plastic skull and little rubber marker dots and lots of clay and eyeballs and a lot of other fun things. He had looked at the plastic skull thoughtfully for a moment. And then had gone up to his room and rescued Boris from his hiding place in Nicky's Trunki. He had brought Boris the Skull with him to give back to Sherlock, but was struck by the thought that perhaps Sherlock would like to see what Boris really looked like. He placed Boris carefully on the stand and, making sure that Sherrinford who had also been in the Trunki, and Wordsworth both had a good view, he set to work.

An hour later he was making rather good progress when he heard a car pull into the driveway. There was only one person it could be. Well two people really. Jonathan was overdue, which meant Charlie.

Nicky promised Boris he would be back very soon to finish his ears and went hurtling along the corridor in time to see Henry showing Jonathan in.

"Hello Nicky!" Jonathan smiled and the small bundle he was carrying snuffled a little.

"Hello Jonathan. Is that Charlie?" Nicky was hopping from one foot to the other with excitement.

"Yes. He's a bit grumpy. He doesn't like travelling in the car."

Nicky stood on tip toe, craning his neck for a better view. Jonathan lowered Charlie for Nicky to see. The baby opened his eyes, looking straight at the small face peering at him. Jonathan braced himself for Charlie's usual reaction to strangers, which was to shriek loudly and not stop until he was given soothing elephants. Instead Charlie wriggled a little, continuing to look at Nicky, before finally smiling and closing his eyes.

"I think he likes you!"

Whatever Nicky's response might have been it was drowned out by a loud Shriek from the day room and the sound of breaking glass and china.

By the time Nicky, Jonathan and Charlie got to the room, Sherlock and Mycroft were already there. A smashed glass bled orange squash across the floor. Mrs Hudson was seated weakly in a chair whilst Arthur Mallin made reassuring noises. On the table, Boris the Skull, with his newly acquired eyeballs and clay-flesh watched the proceedings with interest.

"Mrs Hudson, what on earth is the matter?" Sherlock was scanning the room for clues.

"That face." She pointed to Boris. "It's Billy Marshall. He used to work here!" And then she dissolved into tears.


	198. A Sad House

"It's quite beautiful isn't it?" Jason Hatch jumped as the voice rumbled behind him.

"Uncle Stephen. Wow. It's you." Jason often wondered how such a big man could move quite so quietly.

"The Lady in the Portrait is Mycroft and Sherlock's Grandmother." He paused. "Okay what's the matter?"

"Nothing." Jason blew his fringe from his eyes.

"Is this the point that you tell me you hate me and you're not my slave?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Try Googling Harry Enfield, you might learn something. Come on what's up?" Stephen was looking out of the window in to the gardens.

"It's just this place. Everything's weird. It's like a film or something. There's like all these rooms, and all these beautiful chairs that you don't dare sit in. And Dad's acting weird too. And Lord Holmes or whatever he's called doesn't want me here. I hate this place. Imagine having to live here? No wonder they're all screwed up. And it feels like I'm being watched. Do you reckon this place is haunted?"

"Haunted?" Stephen put a hand on Jason's shoulder. Jason leaned against him. "I think that sometimes places can hold on to memories of the people that lived there. I don't mean that dead people walk the corridors. I mean that the atmosphere remains."

"Like when you walk in to a church or something?"

"Yes."

"This is a sad house."

"I think a lot of sad things have happened here. A lot of people have died, or been disappointed, or betrayed, or lost people that they loved, or even had to make decisions that you and I could not possibly imagine. And things like that are still happening here."

"Uncle Stephen? I'm glad that Dad's happy but..." Jason seemed to be struggling for words.

"You don't get why? And you'd rather he was happy with someone else other than Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yeah. How did that even happen? How did Dad pick some boring posh bloke anyways?"

"Mycroft may be many things young man, but he is anything but boring! Mycroft and your Dad met because Mycroft got blown up, by a car bomb. He ended up in hospital. The reason he was so badly injured was because he was shielding Anthea, that's Nicky's mum, from the blast."

"So why was that not in the papers?"

"Because Mycroft wouldn't allow it in the papers."

"I'm never going to get this am I?"

"You young man are going to be just fine. Better than fine. You'll see. Have you had a go on the piano yet? I think Mycroft had it tuned especially for your visit."

"Really?"

"Yes. He might not show it, but do not for one moment imagine that you don't matter to Mycroft. You do. Everybody does. Come on, I want to hear you play."

Xx

Marcus Hatch had arrived a few moments after everyone else, cursing his leg, and was now comforting a tearful Mrs Hudson. Mycroft was administering an inhaler to Nicky who had burst into hiccoughy tears once he saw the distress he had caused Mrs Hudson. Sherlock was regarding the skull with its new face with curiosity. And Jonathan was busy dangling an elephant in the direction of Charlie who had started crying in sympathy with Nicky.

"Sherlock where did you get that skull from?" Mycroft pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped Nicky's nose for him.

"I found it." Sherlock turned the skull around.

"Found it? Where did you find it? I always assumed you had stolen it from School."

"It was out in the woods. I was thirteen. I found it. Tripped over it actually. It found me."

"And it never occurred to you to tell anyone this? That the skull might belong to someone. Who might have been murdered. Or worse."

"I did think about it. Obviously. But you were at University. No one else would have been interested. I did look for the rest of the body, but couldn't find it. And then father died and I sort of deleted it. And no one ever asked me."

Mycroft gave his brother a look that spoke volumes.

"I'll get on to some of our forensics people and get them to search the woods?" Jonathan had clicked into efficiency mode. "Nicky, could you look after Charlie for me?"

"Me?" Nicky looked up, his green eyes red-rimmed.

"Yes. Just sit down on the sofa." Nicky obediently seated himself on the sofa and Jonathan handed Charlie to him. Charlie immediately stopped his sobbing and looked out from this new vantage point with interest. Jonathan pulled out his phone and began making the necessary arrangements.

"Mrs Hudson? Or should I say Nanny Spencer?" Mycroft looked at his brother's landlady with the dawning realisation she had changed his nappies for him. He felt himself blushing. Another of his father's cover-ups had no doubt resulted in the false history of Mrs Hudson that Mycroft had discovered when his brother took up his tenancy.

"Yes dear?"

"Billy Marshall?"

"Oh yes. Lovely young man. Well you can see can't you? He was a footman. He knew something wasn't right when poor little Augustus died and he made a fuss about it. Wanted to know why there wasn't going to be an autopsy. The next day he'd gone. We were told he'd been fired."

"Mallin?" Mycroft looked to the old butler.

"We couldn't trace him My Lord."

"I see. I am beginning to wonder if there were any levels to which my father didn't stoop. I applaud the young man's sense of right and wrong but why did he make so much fuss?"

"I think it was because he had a younger brother who was like Augustus. Mongolism, that's what they called it back then. Not even fifty years ago and it sounds like the dark ages!" She sniffed into her hanky. "I was dismissed. With a good reference mind, but precious little else."

"You knew who I was when you brought that case to me!" Sherlock picked up Sherrinford from the table and stroked his ears. As an afterthought he picked up Wordsworth and walked over to where Nicky was tending to Charlie on the sofa.

"Yes dear."

"Family is all we have in this world! Always reminding us that we're brothers. Baking stuff for Mycroft. Cleaning the flat. All of it. All because you knew. And yet you never said anything. Why?"

"Because I should have been your Nanny not your Landlady dear."


	199. Bedlam

When lady Holmes awoke she found herself in unfamiliar surroundings. Rather than the comfort of her own bed in the Dow House, where she distinctly remembered being placed the previous evening, she was in a white room. There was the faintly antiseptic smell of a hospital, thinly disguising the lower scent of urine and other unpleasantries. She looked around. Nothing but white. Even the bars on the windows were painted the same brilliant blinding white.

She tried to sit up, but found herself to be restrained by leather straps. What was happening to her?

It took ten minutes for someone to finally hear her cries for help. There was a great deal of noise in the background. She noticed it when the door was opened. She was not the mother of two very observant boys for nothing.

The orderly, as he surely wasn't a doctor, looked at her and smiled.

"Are you all right my love? What a fuss you're making?"

"Young man, do you know who I am? I am Lady Holmes."

"Lady Holmes eh? Well we've got Henry the Eight and three Napoleons down the corridor so you should fit right in." The orderly checked a clip board at the foot of the bed. "Now I think you are due for some more medicine." The syringe was brutally large.

"I am Lady Holmes! My son is Mycroft Holmes, Lord Sedgefield. He works in Whitehall, telephone him at once!" She shrieked before collapsing into silence. Reece shook his head. They got all sorts at The Bethlehem Secure Facility.

"I've given the Queen of Sheba her sedatives." He leant over the nurses' station and noted it down in the meds book. "What's her story then?"

"Got brought in last night. Absolutely raving. Something about killing her baby. Never go to trial of course. And no one's got any idea who she is. No I.D. We've tried all the DNA databases and dental records. Nothing."

"She told me her name is Lady Holmes."

"Yeah she was shouting about that last night. And a son that works for the government? Yeah we've already tried that. They've never heard of him, or her for that matter. And we tried looking for Lady Holmes. Seems she's been dead for years. Died in childbirth. I suppose we'll never know who she is."

"Who's paying for her to stay then?"

"Some foundation or other. Coffee?" Ben span round on his chair and clicked the kettle on.

"Two sugars please!" Reece looked at the file of the woman in Room 101. "Wow. She really doesn't exist does she? I've never met someone who was nobody before."

Mycroft Holmes had always been a man of his word. He had promised that he would make his mother pay for what she had done. He would make her as nothing. Nobody. And now she was.

Xx

John Watson was feeling rather foolish, standing talking to a headstone that marked the grave of a dead boy he never knew. A dead boy who John felt held the answers to many questions. It was strange how Nicholas Garrideb's death, one tiny pebble thrown in to a pool, was still rippling through time.

"...I'm Sherlock's friend, John. John Watson. I'm a Doctor. You would have been a Doctor right?" The only answer was the wind in the trees. "There's so much stuff going on right now. And Sherlock's just not great. He's pretending he is. But you can tell he's not. It's just an act, like when he pretends to be a vicar or something? And I am so angry with him. Because he is being so stupid. He thinks he can just take drugs and jump off buildings and all the rest of it and it won't have any effect on the anyone else. It's not that he doesn't care. He just doesn't understand that other people care. He is the wisest man I ever knew so how can he be so stupid?" A magpie which had been circling around the church spire landed on the weather vane. _One for sorrow_.


	200. Headstones

Nicky had reluctantly surrendered Charlie to the experienced hands of Mrs Hudson.

"I'm not tired!" He protested, struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Of course you're not." Mycroft hoisted him aloft and Nicky's head sagged against his father's neck. Charlie sniffed in an injured manner, but wasn't foolish enough to incur the wrath of a Nanny, even one long since retired. He had been perfectly happy sitting with Nicky, especially once his new Aardvark had made an appearance. Wilson the Elephant had immediately been jilted in favour of Artie and was currently sitting on a cushion. Jonathan couldn't swear to it but he thought the Elephant looked just the tiniest bit relieved.

"When's Mummy getting here?" Nicky mumbled into Mycroft's shoulder. Anthea was enjoying a few days in the Channel Islands with a _Gentleman Friend_.

"She'll be here tomorrow."

"I didn't mean to upset Mrs Hudson. I really didn't." Nicky obviously thought he was being denied Charlie as punishment, rather than the fact he was plain exhausted.

"I know you didn't dear." Mrs Hudson looked up. At the table behind his brother, Sherlock was still gazing at the skull.

"Come on darling boy, let's get you to bed." In spite of his best efforts Nicky leant into Mycroft's jumper and found himself falling asleep.

Xx

Mycroft walked down the corridor carrying his sleeping son, one small arm wrapped around his neck the other hand clutching onto Wordsworth. Mycroft was intending to take Nicky up to his bedroom. The room that had once been Mycroft's. The room where once upon a time, where all good fairy tales start, Mycroft and his lost boy had discovered their love.

And then he stopped.

The sound of the piano was filtering through the oak panelling. The piano that was never played but tuned regularly anyway. For the same reason the second bed in Mycroft's old room had never been removed. And for the same reason that there was still a locked room at the top of Mycroft's house in Kensington. Because one day he was hoping he would wake up and the last thirty years would just have been a nightmare.

A nightmare that seemed never to end.

As he moved closer to the music the tune became recognisable. He remembered leaving the sheet music on the piano. The music Sherlock had bought him for his Birthday. He had sat down intending to play and then realising he couldn't. Music was the reserve of the living, and he was dead inside. But still, like all the ghosts that haunted the manor house, Mycroft was compelled, or perhaps condemned to listen. Jason was almost as talented with the Piano as he was with the Cello.

"Daddy, why are you crying? Don't be sad." Mycroft looked down and saw that he was indeed crying. The tears running slowly down his cheek and into the golden red hair of his son.

Xx

John was getting rather chilly sitting in the churchyard. He had moved his attention away from the plain headstone of Nicholas Garrideb to the more ornate tomb of Rafael Holmes. He wondered what Mycroft would do with it now. Would it be taken away and smashed up? Removing all trace of the monster buried under it. Or would Mycroft keep it there as a permanent reminder to himself and those to come of what happens when you allow power to corrupt you. Power was a strange thing. It was loved by so many people. Yet it never loved anyone back.

Further back, in a quiet corner of the Churchyard, John had discovered a simple wooden bench overlooking the unostentatious grave of Gabriel and Angelica Holmes. The stone was simple white marble. They were buried together, not side by side like all the other pairs of Lords and Ladies. Together. For all eternity.

"What are you doing John?" The voice behind made him jump. John span around and lost his balance, landing in the mud.

"Sherlock! Don't do that! How many times?" John could feel his heart pounding thickly in his throat.

"Did you think I was a ghost? Or worse, the Vicar?" John sensed Sherlock and organised religion did not get on.

"I think there a fewer ghosts here than in your family home!"

"I think you are quite correct John." Sherlock smiled. "But we are doing our best to exorcise the demons." He held out his hand and pulled John to his feet. Above them, on the Church weather vane a second Magpie joined its friend. _Two for joy._


	201. Round and Round

"This was my favourite tree John." Sherlock pointed at a gnarled Oak, ancient but still alive.

"You had a favourite tree?" John was amused.

"You had a hippo!"

"I'm just surprised. It's almost a normal childhood thing."

"I could climb up it and look out over the hills. And no one could find me. No one ever looks up. It was when I first realised how stupid people are. I was three."

John looked up at the tree's branches waving gently in the breeze, shedding leaves like giant confetti.

"You used to play here?"

"When I could. When I could give Nanny the slip. It's strange to think that Mrs Hudson might have been my Nanny. I'm certain I would have had a far harder time escaping from her."

"If Mrs Hudson had been your Nanny you probably wouldn't have wanted to escape."

"Quite." Sherlock paused. And then began to laugh. "Dear Lord! Mrs Hudson has changed Mycroft's nappies! No wonder she always speaks to him as though he was a naughty little boy!"

John began laughing as well. And thinking that once upon a time even the mighty Mycroft Holmes was as helpless as everyone else. And then he stopped. Because that was not a good thought. It was like finding out that the Queen farted.

"Sherlock, where are we going?"

"Just along here. I want to show you the lake. It has Pike in it." Sherlock pointed down a track. The trees above it had bent towards one another and formed and archway.

"No. I mean where are we going? Us?"

"I just told you." Sherlock looked at him blankly.

"Not where are we going now. Where are we going generally?"

"Oh. That." Sherlock suddenly became very interested in a snail that was motoring up the side of a tree.

"I know there is some serious stuff happening with your family right now Sherlock... "

"It's fine. Mycroft will deal with it."

"...but I don't think we can ignore the other stuff that's going on... Hang on. No. You will deal with it as well. Some of it is your mess too. Stop leaving it all up to your brother. Poor Mycroft."

"Poor Mycroft?" Sherlock considered this unlikely epithet.

"Yes. Just because he can deal with everything, it doesn't mean he should have to."

"Why does Mycroft have a child?"

"Sorry? And don't think I didn't notice the subject change there."

"Mycroft. He has a child. Why? He always said that he was going to let the title die with us. If he died first the title would come to me. And when I died that would be it. He couldn't possibly have known that Nicky would be ill and unlikely to outlive him."

"Sherlock!"

"Well it's true." Sherlock poked the Snail with a blade of grass. The Snail retreated into its shell.

"Yes. Yes it is." John watched the snail cautiously poking its head out.

"I never thought Mycroft would ever do that. Have a child I mean."

"Not jealous are you?"

"I suppose if my brain had time for something so trivial I might be."

"I've always wanted to ask this Sherlock." John watched the sun struggling to shine through the trees. "How come you don't understand how the solar system works? Was it just something you deleted?"

"No. I never learnt it. I meant to of course. But I learned something else instead."

"What?"

"It was Christmas. Boxing day actually. Very early in the morning. Everyone was asleep. Except me. I'd had this book for Christmas about planets and stars and one of those models that you could make of the Solar System. And I couldn't make it fit together. The instructions didn't make any sense, so I decided to do what I always did when I didn't understand. Go and find Mycroft."

"Very early in the morning?"

"He never minded. He didn't really sleep either. So I went to his room. And I found him. Naked in bed with Nicholas Garrideb."

"Wow! Were they? You know, doing it?" John was getting a picture. A very terrible picture.

"No. They were just there. Holding on to one another. I watched them for a while. They looked so happy. So still and peaceful. And I realised there was little point in trying to understand what was happening in space when I didn't understand what was happening in my own house."

"And then Nicholas died?"

"Yes John. And the funny thing was the world didn't stop turning. The sun still came up in the morning. The stars were still there. But Nick wasn't there. And Mycroft wasn't there. And I didn't want to be there. And that is why I don't care whether the sun goes round the earth or vice versa. It is not important to me." Sherlock watched the snail as it slowly disappeared around the other side of the trunk, leaving a silvery trail in its wake. "But you are John."


	202. House of Ghosts

Mycroft looked out of the window. It was the kind of autumn day where the sun struggled to shine through the white blanket of sky and the world stayed blue-grey. He thought about pouring himself another drink, but decided against it. Getting drunk wasn't the solution. Just within earshot, he could hear the piano playing. Jason had moved on from the Boomtown Rats and was working his way through what sounded like the first act of The Magic Flute. Mycroft closed his eyes, breathing in the dusty scent of the house and felt warm arms snaking around his middle. And just for a moment he held his breath and hoped.

Marcus observed the slight catch in Mycroft's breathing as he put his arms around his waist. He felt thin. Too thin. Marcus was certain that his very own Government Official hadn't been eating properly in recent days. Of course he'd done a good job of pretending to eat, but the food on the plate never quite made it past his lips. And now as Marcus looked at him standing in the window in this house of ghosts, he realised Mycroft was almost a ghost himself.

"They're searching the woods now." Just before he had spoken he somehow seemed very far away. "I'm beginning to think there's something to the maxim: _Once you are in a hole, stop digging."_

"Do you think they'll find anything?"

"Unfortunately, yes." He turned around to face the shorter man. "I think they will find a great many things. It seems to be a weekend for unearthing un-pleasantries."

"Well whatever get's dug up. I'm right here." Marcus sometimes wished he didn't have to tiptoe to kiss Mycroft. Mycroft bent his head down, resting his forehead on Marcus's shoulder. Marcus closed his eyes, just for a second and ran his hand down Mycroft's spine, feeling the other man's reaction instantly and found himself being held so tightly he couldn't breathe.

"Thank you." Mycroft whispered it softly, his warm breath tickling the scars on Marcus's neck.

"What for?"

"For being here. For staying. For not leaving me."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Xx

Jeremy Huggins quite liked being outdoors. Even being outdoors with the instructions to search a wood to find a forty something year old body. And it gave him the opportunity to try out one of his latest gadgets. And got him out of the rather oppressive air of Q-Branch. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy his work. Far from it. But it was rather disconcerting turning up to work each day knowing you were the office heart-throb and about seventy percent of the people you worked with fancied you and the other thirty percent thought you were an arsehole because everyone else fancied you. He couldn't see it himself. He was quite tall, yes, and he tried to keep himself fit, but apart from a rather good aquiline profile and nice teeth he'd always thought himself perfectly average. He continued to squelch through the muddy woodland, painfully aware that at least one of the people in the forensics team following close behind him was checking out his backside.

"Hi Doctor Huggins!" Molly Hooper had declined to go home earlier. Make that two people checking him out.

"Doctor Hooper!" He smiled, feeling himself slowly turning red and hoping she wouldn't notice. "You're still here."

"Yes." She smiled at him. "I was just leaving when someone said you were using a ground penetrating echo locator system to find our latest body."

"Yes." He waved the offending item for emphasis. It squeaked at him crossly."I've been dying to try out G-PELS for ages. If you'll excuse the pun."

"Did you design it yourself?" Molly had taken the unit from his hand and was turning it over gently. The traitorous unit was humming happily to itself.

"Yes. Yes I did."

"That's amazing." The unit began beeping enthusiastically and a slightly eerie green image came into view on the small screen.

"I think we've got something." Jeremy looked at the screen for thirty seconds as his brain worked its way around the geometry and the wider implications of what he was seeing.

"What is it?" Molly looked at the screen, cradled in Jeremy's large but elegant hands. And then she realised. "Oh. That is just wrong."

On the screen, picked out and translated from algorithms was the image of a headless skeleton. Which was more or less what they had expected to find if it was still buried rather than scattered.

What they had not expected to find however, was a headless skeleton buried feet first, its arms outstretched into the cruciform position and its rib cage splayed open to the sides like some terrible fallen angel.

"Mr Holmes is really not going to happy about this." Jeremy had gone deathly white, all trace of his early blush gone.


	203. Reaching an Understanding

Marcus understood. He understood that when Mycroft had looked at him with a face full of utter desperation and need there was only one course of action left open to him. Only one thing he could do to help. Talking and making reassuring noises and running errands and providing an intellectual punch bag only dealt with some of the problems. Mycroft often ignored, or failed to acknowledge completely, the physical needs his body presented him with. The need for sleep. For proper food at regular intervals. The need for physical contact with another human being.

It was Mycroft's way of rebooting. Of shutting down his mind to a point where he was concentrating on one thing. One tiny physical aspect of his being rather than the whole universe of existence. It placed his mind on the knife edge between being and not being. It was sometimes what he needed.

And Marcus almost understood the urgent reaction to his touch and the reasons why they were engaging in brutal intercourse across the desk in Mycroft's study rather than the comfortable bed upstairs. Almost.

Marcus was rather uncomfortable, there was a marker pen digging into his back, and somehow he felt exposed and vulnerable beyond the usual. And this time was far from the usual. Mycroft's eyes were blank, pupils blown wide and his face fixed in concentration on some unseen thing. Marcus found himself with the uncomfortable feeling of being completely surplus to requirements. Nothing more than a whore sent to service the master's needs. And he felt suddenly scared.

"Mycroft?" he spoke through gritted teeth. There was no response. "Mycroft!" Again no response. The broken portrait of Rafael Holmes leered at him from the corner where it had been thrown. Close above him he could feel the sharp angles of Mycroft's ribs rubbing against him.

"MYCROFT!" he hadn't meant to slap him quite so hard but it did the trick. Mycroft fell backwards in an inelegant heap of legs and jeans and underwear his face suddenly registering horror as he realised where he was and what he had been doing. It was the look of utter desolation in his eyes that washed all anger out of Marcus.

"Oh, dear God. I am so sorry..."

Marcus struggled off of the desk.

"Shush. I understand..." Marcus gently pulled Mycroft to his feet. "Let's go upstairs?"

Xx

Nicky awoke in his bed somewhat indignantly. He remembered being downstairs and now once more he was here. He wished everyone would stop treating him like a baby. And then he became aware of another presence in the room. A small snuffling presence regarding him with two bright eyes from a newly assembled travel cot.

Charlie regarded Nicky through the mesh, one hand clutching onto Artie's nose. Artie was looking at Nicky as well. There was a little bit of dribble on Charlie's wines of the world baby-gro.

"Hello." Nicky smiled. Charlie gurgled back, scowled a little and then waved his arms at Nicky, clearly displaying his displeasure at his incarceration. "Sorry. If I try to pick you up I might drop you. And then I'll be in more trouble. Daddy said he dropped Uncle Sherlock on his head once. He said it explained a lot. He didn't mean to. He loves Uncle Sherlock, but I guess Sherlock might have wriggled or something." Charlie blinked sagely and looked at a point just behind Nicky's shoulder and then smiled. Nicky turned. There was no one behind him, but he was sure he could smell cigars and oranges.

Xx

Sherlock and John walked slowly back to the Manor House. The casual observer would notice that Sherlock had his arm draped lazily on the shorter man's shoulders. They would also have noticed that the shorter man was doing his best to ignore the fact. And a few people might have observed the small smile on both men's faces.

No one would have noticed both men looking up at the new arrivals of unmarked government vehicles and equipment and people and noticed the pair of them seem to sniff the air. To taste the mystery and adventure dancing on the breeze.

And not even Mycroft Holmes himself, had he not been gently surrendering his soul to Marcus Hatch at that moment, would have noticed the look that passed between John and Sherlock. The look that said it was all going to be fine very soon.

All fine. Because they were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And the Game. Their Game, was afoot once more.


	204. The Ways the Cookies Crumble

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother. Mycroft tilted his head slightly to one side but said nothing. Sherlock allowed himself the tiniest of smirks. Mycroft's hair was damp from a recent shower and beginning to curl slightly at the front. The shirt he was wearing wasn't his; he'd obviously grabbed one of Marcus Hatch's shirts in his hurry. Sherlock narrowed his gaze. Mycroft didn't look well. Which was strange because usually when he'd had sex Mycroft got a sort of healthy pink glow all about him. He'd have to have words with Doctor Hatch later on about taking better care of his brother. And possibly buying some better shirts.

Although Marcus didn't actually look much better himself. He had a rather angry looking bruise on his neck, the opposite side to that rather hideous scar. The one that Mycroft was always kissing. Somehow he seemed far more serious than normal. Sherlock placed his observations on the pending shelf of his mind palace and returned to the far more interesting, or at least far more straightforward, headless corpse in the woods.

Jeremy Huggins was talking in silky tones about the positioning of the corpse whilst Molly Hooper (who Sherlock thought had left already) watched him with a somewhat silly expression on her face. Sherlock thought he might have met Jeremy once, at some party he had gate crashed. He was sure at the time he had thought young Doctor Huggins was rather too pretty and probably gay. He wondered if he should let Molly know. She had a habit of doing that. Poor Molly. She'd be fancying Mycroft next.

"...The only thing I've seen comparable to this is the Scandinavian Blood Eagle execution. Only that doesn't involve the burial of the victim prior to death."

"You mean they buried him alive?" Marcus really was looking a bit peaky.

"Barely alive." Jeremy Huggins confirmed grimly.

"And the decapitation?" Well done John!

"Sometime after death I would say." Molly was off. "The vertebrae show some signs of having been gnawed. I would imagine that he was buried up to his chin and left to die. The head was probably carried off by foxes to another part of the woods and stripped of its flesh. And then of course Sherlock found it several years later."

All eyes were now on Sherlock.

"Doctor Hooper has very kindly offered to do the formal confirmation of identity." Jeremy shot Molly a dashing smile.

"That seems like an extreme waste of time to me." Sherlock threw himself elegantly into a chair. Molly didn't even look at him. "After all how many headless corpses can there be the woods?" Both John and Marcus covered their eyes. Mycroft glared at his brother with a look that would have turned anyone else to dust.

"I do wish you would shut up Sherlock." Mycroft looked as though he was mentally counting exactly how many bodies could be hidden in the woods.

"Actually, we're just checking the whole area as a precaution Sir. Lord Denborough ordered it." Jeremy became very interested in the stripy toe of his sock, having left his muddy shoes at the door. Molly couldn't help but notice he had rather large feet.

Xx

Jason was a little taken aback when the grave faced butler had appeared with a tray.

"Lord Sedgefield thought you ought to have some refreshments, Master Jason." The tray contained a glass of Coke and a plate of homemade peanut butter cookies.

"Thank you." The tray was placed carefully on the side table next to the piano but the butler didn't leave. Jason pushed his fringe from his eyes in the awkward silence.

"Will that be everything?"

"Erm...I guess so? Thank you?" Jason had always thought it would be cool to have a servant, but the reality of telling someone else to do stuff you could just as easily do yourself was mildly uncomfortable. The butler bowed slightly and walked silently towards the door. "Erm, excuse me? Mr Mallin?"

"Yes Master Jason?"

"Sorry...how did you know what my favourite biscuits were?"

"I believe his Lordship made enquiries before your arrival."

"Oh...right...yeah... His Lordship." Jason was wondering if finding out the biscuit preferences of your boyfriend's son might not just be a tiny abuse of position.

"I believe his assistant telephoned your mother. Will that be all?" And not waiting to find out if it would be, Mallin left Jason to his thoughts. And cookies.

Xx

Mrs Hudson was enjoying herself immensely looking after not one, but two small people. Charlie was a good baby, but a little grumpy. Fortunately it seemed that now Nicky was fully recharged after his nap he was prepared to act as interpreter. And he was rather good at it. A small whimper from Charlie and Nicky was able to tell Mrs Hudson that the baby needed changing. Another grizzle a little later meant he was hungry.

Nicky was painstakingly constructing something from Lego with an expression of complete concentration on his face that reminded Mrs Hudson of Sherlock, although he had of course got his father's colouring and it seemed his father's patience. Sherlock would have gotten bored and thrown the Lego across the room by now.

"Mrs Hudson? Did you know Daddy and Uncle Sherlock's Grandfather?"

"Lord Gabriel? Yes. He was the one that employed me actually."

"What was he like?" And Mrs Hudson tried to think. He was clever. And kind. And he could look at you and know what you were thinking. And when he had been younger he must have been very handsome. And above all he cared about everyone.

"I didn't know him all that well." She began. "But I rather think that your Daddy and your Uncle are very much like him."


	205. Doctor's Orders

Charlie wailed quite impressively, bringing both Stephen Gray and Mrs Hudson running. Or at least arriving as fast as circumstance would allow them to move. He was immediately silent the moment Stephen reached into the cot and picked him up. Nicky was sitting on the sofa looking rather unwell, Wordsworth the Giraffe looked on with some concern from a cushion.

"I only stepped out to get him a sandwich!" Mrs Hudson looked at the forlorn figure on the sofa. His Lego model was abandoned on the table.

"I'll get John." Stephen carried Charlie from the room, the baby scowled over Stephen's broad shoulder, clearly displeased at being parted from Nicky.

"What's the matter Nicky?" She felt his forehead, he was clammy and cold.

"I feel all squeezed inside." He wheezed. "I want my Daddy."

John Watson came thundering down the corridor, carrying his doctor's bag, with Sherlock in tow. But whilst John immediately sat down next to his small patient and began an examination, Sherlock hung back in the doorway, almost as if he was scared to enter the room.

"I'm just going to listen to your heart Nicky." John pushed the small boy's James Bond T-shirt up and applied the stethoscope to his thin, pale chest, all the time calculating in his head how long it would take to get the boy to hospital. Being miles away from it all was brilliant, right up to the point that you needed something.

"Is he all right John?" Sherlock was still and pale in the doorway.

"Not sure. Have you taken all your medicine today Nicky?" The boy nodded in response. "Sherlock can you get Mycroft?" Sherlock turned in the doorway to go.

"Don't go Sherlock." Nicky looked at the detective with watery eyes and held out his arms.

"Erm..." Somewhere inside his head John knew Sherlock was searching for the information that would tell him what was going on. "I think I should get Mycroft."

"I'll go." Mrs Hudson had been hovering anxiously in the doorway. Sherlock looked down at his brother's son. Nicky didn't have his father's long nose or jutting jaw line, but the expression on his face was exactly the same as Mycroft's. Sherlock had seen it so many times before, albeit that it was remembered through a haze of drugs and rage. It was the look of quietly resigned disappointment mixed with the hope that this time it would be different that his brother had so often looked at him with.

Sherlock sat himself down on the sofa and allowed his nephew to wrap small arms around his neck. Sherlock placed a hand on his back, trying to still the boy's wheezy breaths.

"John?"

"I think he's just having a very bad Asthma attack. I'm going to try him with some adult meds, just to open up his airway a little bit." John reached into his bag and pulled out an Inhaler. "Here you go Nicky. Big breath now." Nicky did his best. A few moments later his breathing became a little easier. And a few moments after that Sherlock felt the boy slump against him, exhausted. Sherlock looked down at the top of his nephew's head; the hair was just starting to go curly at the crown. He reached for Wordsworth; the elderly Giraffe looked more than a little relieved.

"It's all right now Nicky, John's made you better. He's good at that." Sherlock gently gathered the boy into his lap.

"You smell like Daddy!" Nicky murmured against Sherlock's neck.

"I know you're not feeling well, but there's no need to be quite so rude." Sherlock dangled Wordsworth so that his feet tickled against Nicky's face. Nicky coughed a little.

"Sherlock, don't make him laugh!" John was still monitoring Nicky's heart. There was a clattering in the doorway and a rather flustered Mycroft Holmes burst into the room, a concerned expression on his face.

"I'm sorry. I had the bloody Prime Minister on the phone. There's some kind of crisis in the Middle East."

"Isn't there always?"

"How is he? Should we get him to hospital?" John sensed this was as close to panic as Mycroft was going to get. His ears had gone an alarming shade of red.

"It was just an Asthma attack. There's been a lot of exciting stuff going on. He's had some meds and his heart sounds fine."

"Did you hang up the phone on the Prime Minister?" Sherlock moved Nicky into a more comfortable position. "Well done!"

"Do shut up Sherlock! Doctor Watson, what needs to be done?"

"I think he's fine where he is for the moment." John looked down at the small boy who was now fully asleep in his slightly bewildered Uncle's arms. "That's my expert opinion by the way."


	206. Taking the Blame

Nicky awoke with a start about an hour later and looked up with some confusion at the man he was snuggled against. For a moment as his head cleared he thought it was his Daddy. But then he realised the man was far too bony to be Mycroft, and his shirt was scratchy, where Mycroft's were always soft. Nicky's eyes widened as he realised he had been sleeping soundly using Sherlock Holmes as a pillow.

John Watson was mildly amused. The confusion on the young boys face was probably a mirror of his own face the time he had woken from a nightmare to discover himself cuddled up to Mycroft Holmes on the sofa in Baker Street. John had nothing but sympathy for Nicky. Although John had both seen and observed that as the boy had slept and the discussion in the room had turned back to the situation regarding the body in the woods, Sherlock's hand had been gently stroking the red-gold curls of his nephew's hair.

Sherlock was wondering to himself whether this was what Mycroft had been like as a child. Or at least what Mycroft should have been like if he'd had a mother who loved him and a father that wasn't a psychopath. Sherlock had never before paid any thought to what his brother might have been like as a child. Mycroft had always been older, so it was impossible to think of him as young. A small boy hugging onto a giraffe with absolute faith that the grownups could stop the nightmares and the monsters. But in Mycroft and Sherlock's childhood, the grownups had been the monsters. And it had been Mycroft who'd had to stop them.

Mycroft remembered falling over on the stone steps in the garden once, when he was five. At the time he had been carefully ferrying a Sunflower in a pot down to one of the flower beds. He had grown it himself, from a seed, watching the tiny speck of green push through the earth. He had watered it and fed it and even talked to it. But it had been time to give it more space outside. An undone shoelace had proved to be his undoing. The pot had clattered down the steps and smashed at the bottom, his carefully nurtured plant exposed to the roots with its stem snapped. Of course Mycroft himself had not escaped injury. In his futile attempt to save the plant he had landed face first on the stone flags and smashed his nose. The result was immediate and bloody. For a terrible moment young Mycroft had thought the middle of his head was falling out as the blood gushed onto his hands and shirt. But he didn't cry until he saw the ruined Sunflower.

The small boy's shrieks had brought Rafael Holmes from his seat further up the veranda. He had taken one look at his podgy, redheaded son, covered in blood and snot and potting compost like some street urchin and had told him to stop crying immediately. That was not the behaviour of a Holmes. It was Arthur Mallin who had picked up the boy, still sobbing silently and taken him to the kitchens, where Mrs Mallin had shrieked at the state of them both (at that point a great deal of blood and compost had transferred over to Mallin), and Mrs Patmore had made him lemonade and Shrewsbury Biscuits.

Mycroft had not cared less about his nose. Or the subsequent direction it had started to grow in. Mummy had already said he was ugly so a crooked nose wasn't going to make any difference. But he had mourned the loss of his Sunflower. Despite the best efforts of Mallin and Mr Forskitt, the gardener, the unfortunate plant had suffered a terminal wound from which it had not recovered. It had never flowered or grown to its full potential. And it was all Mycroft's fault.

Mycroft looked at his son and his brother, one half asleep against the other. The son who would never reach adulthood. The brother who had been bent and twisted by his own intelligence into a man that could watch and observe humanity and see every nuance in glorious Technicolor, but was forced by his own lack of understanding to live in black and white.

And it was all Mycroft's fault.


	207. Dressing for Dinner

It was hardly appropriate, but after all the preparations that had been made and all the effort Mrs Patmore had put into producing a dinner like "the old days" it seemed rather a waste not to go through with dinner. Mycroft had intended it to be a civilised evening meal with his family and friends. A proper black tie event. Like the ones his Grandfather used to host. With a seven course dinner and port and walnuts to follow. And cigars. Mycroft didn't even like cigars but he did like to do the thing properly.

And properly was not really an adjective that you could apply to the current situation. Not with the recent disclosures about his family, the numerous individuals his father had killed. No make that murdered. The fact that the butler was part of some ancient order of Knights and for all he knew Mrs Patmore might well have been a witch. And there was of course the small matter of him having his mother committed. Mycroft sighed and took his dress shirt off the hanger. He could hear the sounds of Marcus Hatch finishing his shower in the en-suite.

He had been hoping that this weekend would be a way of gently introducing Marcus to the manor house. A sort of I know that life is a bit mad sometimes but this is what you get as consolation kind of thing. No chance of that. Not now. Down the hallway he could hear John Watson complaining vehemently about his bowtie and Sherlock replying that bowties were cool. Mycroft pulled his shirt on. And then stopped. Whoever's shirt this was it wasn't his. He struggled out of it and checked the laundry mark. Evidently it was his shirt.

Mycroft dropped the offending garment on the floor and then went to consult his full length mirror. The man who stared back at him was a stranger.

"Hey, what are you looking at?" Marcus wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist. He was naked and still dripping from the shower. Mycroft blushed and tried to shrug Marcus off. "What's the matter?"

"My shirt doesn't fit." He paused. "It won't do up."

Marcus stooped awkwardly and picked up the shirt.

"I'm not surprised. It's tiny. When did this ever fit you?" Marcus turned the shirt over in his hands, thinking the shirt would probably be just the right size for Jason and wondering how Mycroft had ever been quite so emaciated.

"Shortly before I met you actually. I wore it for the German ambassador's birthday party." Mycroft blushed and Marcus hopped over to the wardrobe and pulled out another dress shirt.

"Try this one." Mycroft slipped the shirt on. It was a perfect fit.

"It's three sizes bigger than the old one."

"That's because the old one is a child's shirt. It wouldn't fit me! I don't think it would fit Jason. So what's the problem?"

"I'm...well look at me..." Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed. Marcus had never seen him look quite so dejected. Quite so insecure. It seemed the pressure of the last few months, the last twenty four hours and the final straw of his shirt not fitting were threatening to overwhelm him.

"You are gorgeous. You are perfect in every way and you are mine Mycroft Holmes. So what do I have to do to prove it to you?" Marcus flicked Mycroft's shirt open and trailed a finger over his muscular chest. He could tell Mycroft had lost weight recently. They'd have to fix that. Marcus pushed Mycroft back onto the bed and pulled his boxer shorts down from his slim hips.

"We need to get ready for dinner." Mycroft was holding his breath as he spoke.

"Like they won't wait for us." Marcus was hovering over his lover, bracing himself with his arms and really missing the benefit of two functional knees when the door of the room burst open.

"Dad? I can't find my...ew!" Jason Hatch stood transfixed for a second, a slow burn of red creeping up his neck and face. "Sorry!" And he fled.

"I really need to teach him to knock!" Marcus shifted his weight over a little, and then found himself being lifted bodily into a more comfortable position.

"I suppose all this extra muscle does have some advantages." Marcus did not reply.

Xx

"Uncle Stephen?" Jason hatch, having fled the scene of horror in his father's room, was seeking some reassurance as well as his missing shoes.

"Hey Jason! You look very smart. Is that new?" The big man indicated Jason's tuxedo jacket. "Although just a thing for future reference, the white socks don't really go."

"I can't find my shoes." Jason said quietly. "This was hanging up in the wardrobe in my room."

"Very nice." Stephen peered at the label inside the jacket. "That's about two thousand quid's worth of tailoring you're wearing there shrimp!"

"Two thousand? Dad will kill me if I spill anything on it. He'll make me wear one of Charlie's bibs!"

"It'll be fine." Stephen placed a heavy arm around the boy's shoulders. Stephen looked rather resplendent in his own dinner jacket, although Jason had noticed his tie was still untied around his neck. "Shall we go and find ourselves a drink? I think it might be gin O'clock."

"I still need my shoes." Jason didn't try to shrug off Stephen's arm, like he did with most gestures of affection from everyone else. Stephen was different. It was all right to get hugs from him.

"Ah don't worry about it. I'll ask Mr. Mallin, they probably went to the scullery for a polish."

"Dad and Lord Ginger are doing things."

"You mean _Things_?" Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Oh good! They could both do with worrying less and shagging more!"

"I'm going to go and pour bleach in my ears."

"Ah Master Jason." Arthur Mallin appeared from one of the side doors. "Lord Sedgefield thought you might be more comfortable in these. I was just removing the labels." He handed Jason a pair of black Converse. Completely black except for musical notes embroidered on the tongue. Jason looked at them for a moment before looking up at Stephen.

"He had these made for me. The music on the tongue is Elgar's Cello Concerto." Jason looked as though he was about to cry.

"See I told you he was a good bloke."

Xx

John Watson had just growled at his bowtie.

"I don't know why you don't get a ready- tied one John?" Sherlock was already resplendent in his perfectly tied tie. The tie itself was looking smugly out at John from under Sherlock's pale elegant chin.

"Because I am about to have dinner with the Holmes Brothers! And probably no one in recorded history has ever sat down at that dining table with a ready-tied tie!" John attempted his tie again.

"John. Come here." Sherlock span him round so he was facing away from him and tied John's tie perfectly in a few seconds.

John growled again but this time he stepped back so he was leaning against Sherlock's chest. Slowly he reached up and pulled his tie undone.

"Do that again." John turned around to face Sherlock, standing on tiptoes and kissed him gently on the lips.

"John?" Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed. John reached up and undid Sherlock's tie.


	208. Aperitifs

Charlie had been reluctant to sit with Mrs Patmore until Nicky, looking like a miniature version of his father and showing he had inherited his talent for diplomacy, had explained she was where the cake came from. Charlie immediately ceased his grumpy wailing and settled into her formidable bosom to watch the fire in the kitchen. Mrs Patmore patted Nicky on the head and told him to run along to the dining room.

Stephen Gray poured himself a large Gin and Tonic. Then he poured Jason a Vodka and Coke (rather more Coke than Vodka) and a Whisky and Ginger which he left on the side for Jonathan. Jason was looking thoughtfully at the clean toes of his new boots when his father arrived looking a little bit red in the face.

"Jason!" Marcus sounded falsely cheerful.

"Dad. It's fine. Really. I should have knocked. Sorry. Is Mycroft cross?"

"No. Not at all. You forget, he grew up in a house with Sherlock. Are those new?" Marcus looked down at his son's feet.

"Yes. They were a present." Jason smiled and sipped his drink.

"You're only having the one of those by the way." Marcus helped himself to Scotch.

"Presents?"

"Vodka and Cokes. Otherwise Daddy and Uncle Stephen will be having words" Stephen held up his hands acknowledging his guilt, but smiling. Marcus looked despairingly at his bowtie. "Have you still not learned to tie one of those? Come here. And sit down." The big man obediently sat and Marcus made short work of his Bowtie. "Better."

"Are you that forceful with His Royal Gingerness?" Stephen asked making Jason inhale a mouthful of his drink.

"Mind your own business. And you can talk. I'm still trying to work out the geometry of you and Little Lord Fauntleroy. Do you have special equipment?"

"He loves my special equipment."

"That's it. If either of you say one more thing to do with sex I'm going home." Jason was looking slightly nauseated.

"What's to do with sex?" Sherlock leaned against the doorway, looking a little flushed. No doubt someone would have answered if a small person had not slid into the room past Sherlock's leg. "Did someone shrink my brother?" Nicky gave his uncle a rather indignant look and busied himself adjusting Wordsworth's bowtie.

"You look very smart Nicky. I do like your waistcoat." Stephen had picked the small boy up. Nicky enjoyed being higher up than everyone else.

"Daddy bought me it. Look my bowtie matches as well." He pointed to his neatly tied tie, which was indeed covered in a pattern of cartoon Giraffes like his waistcoat. "And my cufflinks." Stephen wondered where exactly one went to get gold Giraffe cufflinks.

"Very smart."

"I thought so. He said I wasn't allowed to wear my trainers." Nicky wiggled one foot, showing a smart black shoe and a length of predictably Giraffe-y sock.

"Good evening Gentlemen!" Everyone turned to see Mycroft standing elegantly in the doorway, resplendent in his evening dress. Somehow he made everyone else look scruffy.

"Wow. Daddy. We're the same!" Nicky wriggled out of Stephen's arms and ran to Mycroft. Mycroft was indeed wearing a waistcoat identical to his son's.

"Good God I hope not!" Sherlock muttered under his breath. Jason stifled a laugh and Mycroft clipped his brother smartly around the back of his head. Stephen chuckled and handed Mycroft a glass. Mycroft sipped his drink and hoisted Nicky aloft.

"We're just waiting for John and Jonathan now. And the Ladies of course."

"Ladies?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Mrs Hudson, of course and I took the liberty of inviting Doctor Hooper. What exactly have you done with Doctor Watson, Sherlock?"

"Really Mycroft, you want details?" Sherlock tried to sound arrogant but only managed slightly smug.

"Not particularly. I'm just grateful you remembered your trousers this time."

"Daddy why would Uncle Sherlock forget his trousers?" Nicky look from one man to the other, puzzled. Both geniuses looked completely stumped for an answer.

"It certainly going to be an interesting evening." Stephen finished the last of drink and set about making another.

In the kitchen, Charlie and Mrs Patmore rocked gently in the chair by the fire. Charlie opened one eye and looked up at the old lady thoughtfully. Her half-blind all seeing eyes looked back at him.

"Don't you worry yourself little one." Charlie snuffled a little. "They'll all be just fine. You just wait and see."


	209. Plus Ca Change

Nicky bounced excitedly when Jonathan arrived, although he was careful not to spill his ginger ale, especially as he had been allowed a proper glass for it. Nicky was hoping that Jonathan's arrival might stop everyone being quite so serious. Jonathan kissed Stephen shyly and accepted his drink without saying anything. He looked tired. Nicky had ceased his bouncing and slinked up to sit on the sofa next to Jonathan and gave him a careful hug.

"Did I miss anything?" John Watson appeared in the doorway. He looked slightly flushed. The keen observer would have noticed his Hippo shaped cufflinks. Nicky, of course spotted them straight away.

"No John. We are just waiting for the ladies to join us." Sherlock said it as though he meant it.

"Right. There are ladies? Here?"

"Indeed there are John Watson!" Mrs Hudson strolled elegantly into the room, her evening gown and shawl reminiscent of the golden age of Hollywood. Mycroft offered his arm and Mrs Hudson fluttered slightly. He was rather handsome. Sherlock rolled his eyes and inwardly hoped for a mystery. Just a small one. A small complicated one that would keep him busy through dinner.

And then Molly arrived. Or at least Sherlock thought it was Molly. She was hanging off the arm of Jeremy Huggins, who obviously scrubbed up well.

"Good evening Doctor Hooper, and Doctor Huggins." Mycroft smiled at his guests.

"Molly! You're beautiful!" It was Nicky that said what everyone, even Sherlock had been thinking. Normally, with her lab coat and glasses and sensible shoes Molly attracted little in the way of admiring glances. "Will you dance with me later?"

Molly smiled at her tiny suitor, who was scowling at Jeremy and looking very much like Sherlock.

"Of course I will Nicky. You do look very smart!"

"I have Giraffes." Nicky obviously thought this was the secret to his smartness.

"Will you dance with me?" Jason Hatch pushed his fringe back and smiled. "Sorry, I'm Jason." The boy had removed his glasses to show off his eyes to their best advantage. Molly smiled. He was probably going to be just as handsome as his father must have been, in a few years time.

"I asked first!" Nicky looked as though he was plotting the downfall of nations. Or at least the imminent placing of toads in Jason's bed. "That's not fair!"

"Boys, not here all right?" John Watson could sense an argument brewing and he really didn't want to see if Nicky had inherited the Holmes temper.

"I will dance with both of you." Molly smiled. It was nice to have men fighting over her. Even very small men. Beside her Jeremy smiled, because no matter who danced with her, she was going home with him.

Jason had a slinked off to receive a talking to by his father and Nicky was seated on the sofa stroking his Giraffe like the world's smallest Bond villain. Mycroft half sighed, half smiled as he recalled the arguments Sherlock and him used to have

"Lord Sedgefield, Ladies and Gentlemen, Dinner is served." Arthur Mallin announced.

It really did seem the more things changed the more they stayed the same.


	210. Absent Friends

Mycroft was naturally seated at the head of the table, in the huge carved chair occupied by almost all of the previous Lords of the Estate. To his right, with the aid of a cushion, Nicky had been seated in the chair reserved for the heir to the title. Up until that evening the seat had been occupied, albeit rarely and under protest by Sherlock. Jason Hatch was seated to Mycroft's left, slightly unnerved by his position and unaware that it was an acknowledgement of his acceptance into the family. At the opposite end of the table, Marcus Hatch was seated, all too aware that he was sitting in the place normally kept for the Lady of the House.

Jason and Nicky glared at one another across the table, a paper thin truce made between them for the duration of dinner. Jason had an annoying smirk on his face as he was allowed to have wine and Nicky wasn't. And Wordsworth had been banished to the sideboard for the duration of the meal. Nicky thought this was unfair. Denied wine and denied Giraffes, being nearly eight was no fun at all. Nicky speared a piece of potato with his fork, clearly imagining it was Jason's hand. Jason was about to say something when he caught his father's disapproving gaze and busied himself with dinner.

Sherlock was getting on remarkably well with Jeremy Huggins and had been only too glad to sit as far away from Mycroft as possible. It wasn't that he was still harbouring his false hatred for his big brother, but Mycroft was still a pompous git half the time and would no doubt be nagging Sherlock about using the correct knife and fork. Sherlock didn't see what the problem was as long as he was using a knife and fork. Jeremy Huggins was charming and rather clever. Not as clever as Sherlock of course, but at least he could keep up. Kind of like John. And as well as that he had solved the problem of Molly rather nicely.

Molly and John were talking about some kind of tedious new procedure, as was always the case when you got two Doctors in close proximity. John was demonstrating a new incision on a slice of roast beef.

Jonathan was dividing his time between fielding questions from Nicky about being a spy, something he was denying, although Nicky didn't seem convinced, and making sure Stephen was actually eating some vegetables as opposed to just pushing them around his plate. Stephen wasn't keen on vegetables. He found them generally not to be trusted. Stephen took another gulp of wine.

Mrs Hudson was positively beaming. When she had worked at the manor all those years ago she had never eaten at the big table. Nanny took her meals in the nursery. Somehow it was every bit as glamorous as she had imagined. Almost like stepping back in time. She looked down the table at Sherlock, chatting to Molly's rather dishy ex-Etonian doctor friend. Sherlock was still pale and thin, but somehow there was a spark in him. Like a fire just before it roars into flame. She'd been so worried about him.

Then her eyes flicked up the table to Mycroft. She'd been worried about Mycroft too. The tall man seemed so very far removed from the baby whose nappies she had once changed. Only his eyes were the same. He looked far too thin and she was quite pleased he seemed to be eating well, but then he'd always liked Mrs Patmore's cooking. Just like his Grandfather. And quite what Gabriel Holmes would have made of all this she wasn't quite sure. Mycroft looked up, catching her gaze and he smiled at her, for a moment looking very young. And then he tapped his glass silencing the chatter around the table.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," He raised his glass. "Absent friends."

"Absent Friends." The echo came back to him.

In the kitchen Mrs Patmore looked up from her stirring and smiled.


	211. Nutcracker Suite

Dinner was over, the ladies retired to the sofa with liqueurs and Sherlock wreathing everyone in cigar smoke at the table. Nicky, happily reunited with his Giraffe was attempting to crack a walnut, with little success. Several people had offered help but Nicky had been most insistent he could do it himself. There was a smug crack from across the table as Jason successfully opened his fifth nut. This it seemed was the final straw for Nicky who picked up Wordsworth and his unopened walnut and went and sat on his father's lap, sighing dramatically. Down the table, John Watson had just succeeded in firing half a walnut at Stephen Gray, who managed to field it with very quick reflexes for someone who'd had rather a lot to drink. John apologised profusely, citing his left-handedness as an excuse.

Mycroft reached for the Port. He was feeling rather relaxed and just a little fuzzy and some small part of him was wishing it could always be like this. He knew what the answer to that was of course. A resounding no. He was the man in charge of the world, you couldn't really take time off for that. It was a job for life. A responsibility. The thing he had been born to do.

Nicky wriggled in his father's lap, slipping a little on his silky trousers. Mycroft caught the boy under his arms and hoisted him into a better position. Whilst Mycroft took a sip of his port, Nicky thoughtfully rolled his walnut around the table, looking so much like his Uncle Sherlock in that moment that his father checked to make sure his brother was still in his seat.

"So Jason." Sherlock suddenly spoke through the haze of his cigar. "Are you going to give us a recital?"

"Er..." Jason started to redden as all eyes were suddenly turned on him.

"Oh lovely!" Mrs Hudson beamed, she'd had rather a lot of liqueur.

"Dad?" Jason gulped and looked desperately at his father.

"If you play, I will." Sherlock stood up, smiling like a shark about to bite a surfer in half.

"But you never play in public?" John had put the nutcrackers down carefully.

"You've never seen me play in public. That's not the same thing John."

"I don't have my Cello with me." Jason hoped they would all forget he could play the piano as well.

"Somehow I don't think that will be a problem. Mycroft?"

"You really don't understand the concept of surprise do you brother mine?" Mycroft stood up, plonking Nicky on the floor.

"I think we've all had about as many surprises as we can take this weekend, brother dear."

Marcus looked at John, clearly hoping he knew what they were talking about. John shrugged.

"I think we should all adjourn to the music room." Mycroft picked up his glass.

"That's a rather pompous title for the room with the piano in it!" Sherlock felt he needed to clarify things for everyone. "Are you going to play Mycroft?"

"Sherlock!" John placed a warning hand on Sherlock's arm. He clearly felt Sherlock was pushing it now. Mycroft raised his eyebrow but remained silent.

As the room cleared out Jason walked towards the door like a condemned man.

"It's all right Jason." He looked down to see Nicky staring back up at him. "You can borrow Wordsworth. He'll bring you luck." Nicky proffered the floppy Giraffe with a shy smile.

"Thanks." Jason really didn't know what to say. He quickly returned to the table. A few seconds was all it took. "Here you go Short-stuff!" he handed Nicky a freshly cracked walnut and the two of them made their way to the music room.


	212. A Duet for One

Jason Hatch hung his jacket carefully back on its Saville Row hanger. He was confused. More than the usual confusion at any rate. But then it had been a confusing sort of evening. And now he wasn't quite sure what was going to happen. It was exciting. And terrifying. And wonderful. And terrible. All at the same time.

Somewhere on the walk between the dining room and the music room, he seemed to have acquired a little brother. A little brother who had slipped a small warm hand in his and told him that he was quite certain Jason would be brilliant and not to worry.

And then he'd actually reached the Music Room, supposing that Mycroft and his Dad had colluded to have his Cello brought to the house. There was Cello waiting for him. But it wasn't his. His Cello, whilst it was a good one, was only worth a few thousand pounds, and it had a battered case from years of use. It had belonged to a friend of Jason's mother who had upgraded. But the Cello waiting for him was new. Brand new. Its case was propped unobtrusively in a corner, polished like black glass. And when Jason drew the bow across the strings for the first time and the Cello breathed a musical sigh Jason realised just what a good instrument this was.

And he'd played. And everyone had listened. And whilst he had by no means been brilliant, or played his very best, it wasn't the death sentence he had been expecting. And he'd played, from memory, the Doctor Who theme for Nicky, who in turn had clapped his hands in delight.

And then Jason had reluctantly set down the bow. He assumed the instrument was going to be returned to whoever it belonged to. He laid the instrument reverently in its case, appreciating the soft red lining. Even the case was beautiful. And it was only when he closed the lid he saw the name stamped in red letters on the mirror black.

J M HATCH.

He had looked at his Dad, who had merely shrugged and glanced casually at Mycroft. Mycroft had become very interested in his glass; his ears went a bit red, as though he was embarrassed at being found out. No one said anything.

Not even Sherlock.

Jason looked around the room. Earlier in his resentment at being there in the strange house, he had failed to notice that the room was decorated in his favourite colours. He had failed to notice the carefully chosen duvet cover with its pattern of musical notes. He had failed to notice the books on the shelves were all his favourite authors. Jason was kicking himself, he had thought, in his anger, that he was losing his Dad to this strange, frightening man and he had failed to notice that the invitation was extended to him as well. He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed to remove his trainers.

It was only once he had undone his laces that he realised he was crying.


	213. All the Small Things

For some reason Nicky had fallen asleep cuddled up to John Watson. John had a silly smile on his face which told the world he didn't mind at all. Sherlock was eyeing John suspiciously as though any moment he would leap to his feet and demand they go to the nearest orphanage and adopt several urchins with which to fill Baker Street. It was a shame to wake him up really. And Mycroft hated to do it, but unfortunately it had to be done. Medication waited for no man or small boy.

"Bleurgh." Nicky pulled a face. A sleepy, grumpy face. And then he stuck out his jaw so he looked exactly like his father. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock moved to the edge of his seat.

"Nicholas. You need to take your pills, then you can go back to sleep." Mycroft spoke firmly.

"S'pose." Nicky scowled at his father, turning in an instant into the image of his uncle. Mycroft handed him a bowl of pills and a glass of milk.

"It's okay Nicky." John sat up a little, moving the small boy in to a better position.

"Will they make me better?" Nicky's huge green eyes looked directly at John.

"They'll stop you getting any worse."

Nicky sighed. He didn't look convinced. But he dutifully swallowed the lot, before grabbing hold of Wordsworth and snuggling up against John once more.

"I'm sorry John, he's not usually this clingy. I think it's all the excitement catching up with him. Perhaps his mother is right. She thinks he should have a more stable environment than we can offer him." It was just the three of them and the sleeping child now. All the other guests had retired for the evening.

"Were you ever that small?" Sherlock looked at his brother.

"Don't be ridiculous Sherlock. Of course I was. So were you."

"I don't remember. You've always seemed big to me."

"Quite." Mycroft sounded distant, not even rising to Sherlock's half hearted dig. "This can't be doing him a great deal of good. Explosions, poison, bodies in the woods, autopsies, drug addiction and Lord alone knows what else."

"He's so tiny." Sherlock had moved closer to John so he could examine his sleeping nephew more closely. Nicky's button nose wrinkled a little in his sleep and he burrowed against John's chest.

"Shush."

"But he is. Should he not be bigger than that? I'm sure children that age are supposed to be bigger. Maybe you should make him eat more? Does he eat enough?"

"Right, the pair of you. Stop right now. Nicky's absolutely fine." John paused. "As a matter of fact I wasn't much bigger at this age myself. And I turned out fine thank you very much."

"You have short legs John." Sherlock looked him up and down.

"They reach the floor don't they?" John let Sherlock think about that for a moment whilst he moved Nicky into a more comfortable position. One of his aforementioned legs was slowly falling asleep. Mycroft moved from where he had been warming his back against the fire, stopped down and picked his son up. Nicky wriggled for a moment before wrapping his arms around Mycroft's neck, clouting him in the side of the head with the Giraffe as he did so.

"I think it's bedtime. For everyone."

The fire flickered, dying in the grate. John and Sherlock were left alone, the echo of Mycroft's footsteps still sounding up the stairs. John sighed.

"John?"

"You heard your brother. It's bedtime!"


	214. The Sound of Silence

Sherlock quietly opened the bathroom door and silently sang the praises of his big brother's genius in putting him and John in The Blue Room. (Which should probably have been renamed The Off-white and Aubergine Room). He told himself to focus. Focus on not waking John.

It was just after three in the morning. Sherlock had found himself woken up after perhaps two hours sleep (good by his standards). He wasn't quite sure what had woken him. It could have been the clock in the hallway gently chiming the hour. It could have been an owl hooting out in the manor grounds or it could have been the gentle squeak of bedsprings from Mycroft's room further up the hall.

But what it actually was. What Sherlock concluded had really woken him up was the silence.

In London, in Baker Street, there was always noise. Traffic and people and sirens and the beat of the bass from a hundred nightclubs. The symphony of the big city. And somehow, over the years, Sherlock had got used to it. Had been comforted by it. The noise helped to drown out the constant whirring of his brain. Not completely. Rather like the way one might switch on the radio to drown out the noise of the neighbours having sex. The noise was still there, but you at least had something else to listen to.

Only now there wasn't. Sherlock had forgotten just how noisy the silence of the manor was. With the walls all whispering their secrets to him and no city soundtrack to drown it out.

John had fallen asleep with his bedside lamp on and in the gentle light Sherlock could see the rise and fall of his ribcage as he slept. Sherlock slipped into the Chaise at the foot of the bed. He really would have to speak to Mycroft about having such very camp furniture. And then he sat there. Still and silent. Watching.

There was no need for Sherlock to wake John, no need for him to lay down on the bed beside him or to caress his sleeping form and whisper sentiments in his ear. Sherlock was certain that was what Mycroft would be doing up the hall. Mycroft was awake as well. But a different kind of awake to Sherlock. He was not his brother.

John turned in his sleep, on to his right side, his arm crooking around the pillow, but he didn't wake. Sherlock leaned forwards a little, listening, focussing on John. Each gentle exhale and inhale in time to the hypnotic rise and fall of John's chest. Sherlock concentrated, harder, until the deafening silence of the house was drowned out by the sound of John Watson's breathing.

He continued to watch John until the morning started pushing its way into the room and the sound of birdsong and elderly plumbing waking up began filtering its way through the house. Carefully Sherlock retreated back thorough the bathroom and the connecting doors to his own bed.

He could still hear John breathing.


	215. Petit Dejeuner

It was early. Five O'clock. Mycroft couldn't sleep and now his restlessness was threatening to disturb Marcus. He slipped from the bed, reluctantly leaving behind the warmth of his lover.

He had walked the corridors so many times over the years. But somehow this felt different. He was walking them now, truly as the Lord of the Manor not as a child still scared of his parents. His future was his own and no one else's now.

Mycroft looked in on his son. Nicky was sleeping peacefully, his breathing slow and even, one arm tightly hugging Wordsworth and the other dangling over the edge of the bed. Mycroft gently readjusted his son's sleeping position and pulled the duvet up to cover him. Nicky slept on.

The house was quiet. Sleeping. And now the strangest thought occurred to Mycroft. He was no longer scared. No longer fearing what might be around the next corner. As a child he had been frightened, irrationally he told himself, of the shadows and the strange turnings and nooks of the house. Sherlock of course had loved them. But now the dim corridors had a gentle glow to them as the house began to wake up. And there was something else. A smell. A welcoming smell of cinnamon and oranges and sweetness. Mycroft followed it all the way to the warm kitchen.

"Good morning Lord Mycroft." Mrs Patmore placed a large mug on the table as he entered and indicated he should sit. The chair was already drawn away from the table. Expecting him.

"Good morning Mrs Patmore. You seem to be up very early."

"Breakfast doesn't make itself you know! And why aren't you still asleep with that lovely doctor of yours?"

Mycroft blushed, immediately wishing he was properly dressed and didn't suddenly feel as though he was seven years old. He picked up the mug, letting the familiar forgotten scent fill his lungs. Hot milk, with cinnamon and golden syrup. Mrs Patmore set a plate of buttered toast down on the table and busied herself with the kettle. Mycroft looked at the enormous ginger cat warming itself in front of the AGA.

"Since when did we have a cat Mrs Patmore?" The cat glanced at Mycroft thoughtfully for a moment, before deciding he wasn't a threat and returning to his paws.

"Oh don't you worry about Mephistopheles. He keeps the mice down." She turned, holding another mug and set it on the table. Ten seconds later the kitchen door was pushed open by Sherlock, wearing nothing but a pair of grey silk pyjama trousers. His ribs stuck out prominently, his skin pale and marble perfect. Mycroft pulled his dressing gown tighter around him. The cat looked up once more, regarding Sherlock with some disdain, before rising to its feet and relocating under Mycroft's chair.

"Good morning Mrs Patmore."

"And here's another one. I don't know what the matter with the two of you is. Lovely warm beds to sleep in and nice Doctors to look after you both and you spend your time wandering around this gloomy old place. Mad as a bag of frogs the pair of you." She placed a plate of crumpets covered with jam down in front of Sherlock.

Mycroft crunched his toast. Under his seat the cat gave a throaty purr and rubbed its whiskers against his bare ankles.

"The cat likes you." Sherlock spoke through a mouthful of crumpet.

"Apparently so."

"It must feel affinity for your gingery-ness. Since when have we had a cat Mrs Patmore?"

"We've always had cats. Just you never noticed before." The cat looked quite smug about this. Mrs Patmore set a plate of eggs and bacon down on the table in front of Mycroft. He was certain he hadn't seen her cooking it, but obediently picked up his knife and fork.

"Now mind you eat that all up. I think today might be long and difficult." The cat gave a last loving rub against Mycroft's leg and followed Mrs Patmore from the kitchen.

Mycroft and Sherlock looked at each other.

"And you know she's always right." Sherlock bit savagely into a crumpet.

"Unfortunately, yes." Mycroft smiled wanly at his little brother. And they continued their breakfast in companionable silence.


	216. Honey, Herbs & Catnip Stew

"Mrs Patmore have you got..." Nicky didn't finish his sentence as he discovered the kitchen was deserted. A large pan was bubbling away on the stove and the door leading out into the herb garden was ajar. Nicky had the distinct impression he was being watched.

The herb garden was surrounded by high walls and had neat, raised beds in various stages of growth. The garden smelled of mint and lemon with several bushes of herbs taller than Nicky.

"Mrs Patmore?" For some reason he said it quietly, not wanting to wake the herbs. He couldn't see Mrs Patmore, but was sure someone was observing him. It wasn't a nice feeling. He thought about running back inside, but he decided he should be brave. He was nearly eight after all. Nicky rounded the corner of a large planter, overflowing with alien purple leaves and was confronted by a curious pair of green eyes. He stopped dead in his tracks. Generally Nicky wasn't scared of cats, but then he'd never met a cat quite so large. Or quite so...knowing. The cat took a step towards him.

"Mephistopheles!" Both the cat and Nicky jumped as Mrs Patmore appeared from nowhere. The cat turned and purred at her. "That is Master Nicholas. Shame on you for frightening him." The cat had the good grace to look embarrassed.

"I wasn't frightened Mrs Patmore. I was just surprised. He's a very big cat." By now Mephistopheles had closed the gap between them and was purring hopefully up at Nicky.

"He's a big softy really. Give him a tickle."

Nicky reached down, with the look of someone fully expecting to lose a limb, and was rewarded with a handful of furry cat.

"There. You see. He likes you." Mephistopheles rubbed himself against Nicky's leg, his tail waving in the air, conducting an unheard symphony.

"He's the same colour as Daddy's hair!" Nicky giggled. The cat purred. Nicky sat down on the path and the cat decided to clamber into his lap.

"Well he's a Holmes Cat."

"He's tickly!" Nicky giggled harder as the cat decided to flick his tail up inside the small boy's jumper. "Oh sorry Mrs Patmore, I was supposed to get some honey from the kitchen. That's what I came for."

"Honey?"

"Uncle Sherlock is doing an experiment." The cat paused in its tickly attentions to squint one eye at Mrs Patmore.

"Oh dear. Well we best get him some honey then." Mrs Patmore sidestepped both small boy and large cat, although Nicky was quite sure she couldn't see either of them and headed towards the kitchen. The cat stepped back respectfully to let him get to his feet and then followed closely purring as they moved.

X

Charlie spat his milk quite forcefully all over Stephen and the surrounding area. He scowled up at the big man and when he realised the message wasn't getting across, he began to wail at high volume. Stephen shushed him patiently. It did no good.

"What's the matter with him?" Jonathan hurried into the room.

"I thought you were talking to the head of police records?"

"He's on hold." Jonathan took Charlie carefully. Charlie paused for a moment as he thought about this new vantage point and then redoubled his crying.

"He wants his Aardvark. And his nappy changing. He's done a poo." Both men turned and followed the progress of the small boy as he carefully carried a jar of honey through the dining room. Following Nicky at a distance of three feet they observed a large orange cat. Charlie ceased his wailing and gurgled.

"How does he even know that?" Stephen reached for the Aardvark, which had been sitting quietly on the table. Charlie grabbed it and sank his gums into Artie's nose.

"It must be a Holmes thing. Are you going to change him or do you want me to do it?"

"I'll do it. Haven't you got someone important on hold?"

"Like they won't wait. Mycroft just wants me to get hold of some sealed records. Old ones."

"Oh. Right." Stephen nonchalantly placed Charlie on the changing mat. Jonathan left the room. And then Stephen's face fell. He looked at the chubby little boy in front of him, with his spiky tufts of blond hair and inky eyebrows and smiled sadly. "Well we had a good run didn't we?" Charlie scowled thoughtfully and offered Stephen his Aardvark.


	217. Sleeping With the Fishes

"Who's your friend?" Sherlock looked past his small nephew to the large ginger cat.

"He's called Messy-toffees."

"I think he might be called Mephistopheles?"

"Yes that's it. Messy-stopheles."

"Quite."

"I got the honey. What are you going to do with it?" And that was a very good question as Sherlock had only sent his nephew on a honey errand in order to escape from the rather disconcerting green gaze. And now the child had returned. With reinforcements. And that was just cheating. Nicky looked up expectantly. So did the cat.

"Bees."

"Bees?"

"Yes. I want to attract Bees."

"But it's winter?" He was truly his Father's annoying son.

"That's why I need the honey. In summer I'd use flowers."

"Why do you want Bees?"

"Never mind. Now I need you to go and get me some green moss from the back of the house. Be careful and don't squash it. That's very important."

"Right. Green moss. Not squashed. Come on Messy." Nicky took off at high speed, followed by the cat who gave Sherlock a rather contemptuous look before leaving the room.

Xx

Mycroft was busy with a swathe of reports. They were still searching the woods. After a brief sojourn which Mycroft suspected involved Molly Hooper, Jeremy Huggins was back, clad in his wellies and a rather rakish looking bomber jacket, surveying the ground under the trees. Mycroft rubbed his eyes and looked out of the study window, in time to see his son and heir precariously balancing on the low wall of the veranda. Perfect. That was exactly what he needed.

"Nicholas!" Mycroft opened the window.

"Yes Daddy?" Nicky said it with all the innocence of the caught red handed.

"Come down from there at once. What on earth are you doing?"

"I'm getting some moss for Uncle Sherlock." Nicky held up a handful of slightly squashed green fuzz.

"Why does Uncle Sher...never mind. " Mycroft really didn't want to know. "Please come inside. You'll get cold." Nicky sighed. He knew his Daddy loved him but sometimes he wished he was allowed to do things without everyone worrying about him. Mephistopheles who had been watching the drama unfold from a safe distance rubbed himself against Nicky's leg sympathetically.

"Grownups are no fun at all Messy!" Nicky reached down and patted the cat with a mossy hand and began walking at a snail's pace the long way back round to the front of the house.

Xx

Jason was still coming to terms with how he felt about everything. There had been a covered tray of breakfast waiting for him when he made it to the dining room. Everything still perfectly warm, as though they knew exactly what time he was going to be there.

He threw a toast crust into the pond and a large orange fish surfaced, looking at him curiously before swallowing the bread and disappearing into the depths again with a loud plop. A few moments later the fish resurfaced. It stared at him, keeping its nose just below the water level, then dived back down. The fish did this three or four times.

"Sorry. I haven't got any more toast." Jason wondered how it had come to him apologising to a fish. The fish dived down once more then resurfaced. "What's the matter?" Jason looked around; perhaps there was a Heron or something spooking it? But there was nothing. Another fish rose to the surface, this one almost white, with a mother of pearl sheen to it. It joined in the slow deliberate diving and rising. Jason stood up, peering into the pond. The water was quite clear, although there was one end of the pond filled with weed for the fish to shelter in, and Jason could see the mosaic pattern on the bottom. It was an old fashioned design, like one of those medieval tapestries. Jason supposed making stuff out of tiles was probably a difficult thing. It was weird because the pond was designed like one of those Roman water garden things, so it should have had a Roman pattern, perhaps some of those vases or grapes? Certainly not a knight, lying with his arms crossed across his chest holding a sword.

There were seven fish dancing on the pond now, and Jason removed his tinted glasses to get a better look at them. The beautiful yellow eyes he had inherited from his father came at the price of extreme sensitivity to light. His mates all called him Vampire-Boy. The fish immediately dived to the bottom of the pond, where they stayed, unmoving. Jason was beginning to get a little freaked out by it. Fish were fish. Even if they were genetically modified super fish that Mycroft had got from some special research facility as a left over from a long forgotten cold war project...

Jason took a breath. Told himself to get a grip. And then looked into the pond. The mosaic artist had done a really good job with the knight's sword. It looked almost real. As though you could reach into the water and pull it out. Jason leaned forwards, felt his foot slip on the marble edge and suddenly found himself plunged headfirst into the surprisingly deep pond. As he went under into the freezing water, he was sure, quite sure, he had been pushed.


	218. In At the Deep End

Nicky stubbed his toe on the gravel path and sighed loudly. He didn't see why he wasn't allowed to climb up a wall. It was after all only a small wall. It wasn't as though he'd climbed onto the roof. He sighed again and Mephistopheles purred sympathetically by his knee. A low rhythmic buzz that started somewhere in the large cat's chest. Nicky reached down to stroke the soft fur and then stopped. Mephistopheles had stopped purring and was now growling, his back arched and his hair sticking up.

"What's the matter Messy?" Nicky looked around, wondering what might have upset his new friend. Suddenly Mephistopheles took off, slinking at high speed into the gardens. Nicky paused. Daddy had said at once, but this might be important. He took a puff on his inhaler and followed.

Xx

Jason thought he could be dying. Everything was black and cold and numb. And that was not how he wanted to go. It wasn't rock and roll at all. Drowning in a pond surrounded by curious government spy fish with moustaches. He supposed that was some kind of disguise. The moustache. He started to giggle. In his brain. It was like being high. He thought. He'd been to a party once where some older guys had been smoking weed and him and Jeremy Tibbs had tried to breathe in a few fumes. It had just made him cough. He needed to cough now. His chest hurt, like it was being crushed. And in the blackness he could see the bottom of the pond, which seemed to have grown to the size of a swimming pool. And he could see the knight who rested at the bottom. The knight was no longer a mosaic but a three dimensional figure, like one of those marble effigies. And as Jason looked closely he saw the knight looked exactly like Sherlock Holmes.

Xx

Mephistopheles was pawing the surface of the pond.

"Messy, come away from there. You are not eating Daddy's fish. Bad cat!" Nicky was momentarily annoyed that his adventure was nothing more than the fat cat wanting food. But then Nicky saw the water splashed all around the marble edge of the pond. Far too much water for one cat to have splashed with its paw. His brain began to connect the pieces of the puzzle. Something had recently been dropped into the pond. Something large. Nicky approached the edge of the pond with caution, several big fish surfaced, dancing on the top of the water. There was something in the bond. Nicky could see its distorted outline through the water, which was murky with stirred up debris. Something floated a foot below the surface, lazily ebbing and flowing with shake of the water. Hair. Black and White.

"Jason!" Nicky was scared. His head began to run through the possibilities. It would take too long to get back to the house. He couldn't leave Jason. He had to get him out of the water. Nicky carefully leaned out over the water. Jason was just out of reach. Nicky stretched himself as far as he could go, feeling his tears beginning to run down his cheeks and fall in hot salty drops into the cold water. Uncle Sherlock was right, he was too small. He took a deep breath. The water looked very cold. And very deep. And it was nothing like swimming in the physio pool at the hospital with Rachel. He liked Rachel, she was always happy and smelled nice, like donuts. And he wasn't supposed to get cold. He had overheard one of those conversations once. The ones the grownups all had that they thought he didn't understand.

"_Suddenly temperature changes are very dangerous Mr Holmes. They place a great deal of strain on his heart. In the wrong circumstances it could cause the heart to stop..."_

But, thought Nicky, no one lives forever anyway. And if he didn't dare to jump in, then really, what use was he?

Xx

The door of Mycroft's study was pushed open rather forcibly and he suddenly found himself in the company of the large cat from the kitchens. The cat looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before raking a paw across the front of Mycroft's jeans, shredding material and drawing blood.

"Why you..." The cat took off at high speed. Mycroft took off after it, his outrage overtaking his sense of propriety, as he pounded down the corridor and out onto the drive in his slippers. He almost gave up the chase once he was outside but the cat seemed to be taunting him as it rounded the corner of the house and headed towards the gardens.

It was one of those moments he would replay in his head for years to come. One of those moments that would fill his nightmares until the day he died. Clinging to the side of the pond, surrounded by several large bright fishy shapes, gently nudging against him, was the shivering figure of Nicky, his hair plastered to his head and his thin chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. Nicky was holding something in his arm. Holding on for dear life as his hands slipped on the smooth marble surrounding the water. It was only when he got close enough that Mycroft realised the pale thing with blue lips and mud streaked hair that Nicky was clutching onto, desperately trying to keep it clear of the water, was Jason Hatch.

"Daddy! Help us!" And without hesitating Mycroft jumped into the pond.


	219. Knocked for Six

The last time Sherlock had seen Mycroft run was 1982. Since then he had not got above a brisk walk. So the sight of his brother pounding down the corridor and out of the front door in hot pursuit of the giant orange part-cat, part-tiger, part-food mixer was really too good to miss. Sherlock sauntered after his brother, crunching across the gravel and around the side of the house. He was just in time to hear Mycroft's shout and see him jump into the pond. Horace was really going to be quite put out about that, Sherlock was sure.

The water was cold and fish scattered everywhere when he jumped in, up to his waist. He hauled Nicky out of the water and onto the side of the pond with one hand, roughly grabbing the front of his soaked jumper. Then he scooped up Jason's limp body and lifted him clear. The boy's lips were blue. Nicky sat quietly, his teeth chattering, dripping. Mephistopheles curled himself around the small shivering boy.

"What happened?"

"He was in the pond." Nicky mumbled into the top of the cat's head. "I think he might be dead."

Mycroft ran his fingers along Jason's throat, feeling for a pulse. There wasn't one.

Sherlock remembered he wasn't wearing shoes or socks when his feet touched the wet marble on the side of the pond.

"Sherlock, get John! And take Nicky with you." And for once Sherlock didn't argue as he scooped up his nephew, ignoring the poisonous look the cat gave him. As Sherlock sped across the gravel, without looking back he knew his brother would have begun CPR on the lifeless body.

Xx

"JOHN! MRS HUDSON!" Sherlock bellowed at the top of his voice.

"Sherlock, what on earth..." John didn't finish his sentence as he saw Nicky shivering against Sherlock's chest, dripping onto the floor.

"Accident. Pond. Go now." John was off. "MRS HUDSON!" But she didn't answer. However Stephen Gray loomed large from the library.

"What's all the shouting? We just got Charlie to sleep." Stephen looked at Nicky, his eyes widening. From the library, the sound of Charlie waking up and wailing filtered through.

"Here. Take him. Warm him up. Accident." Sherlock thrust the wet boy into Stephen's arms and ran.

Stephen looked at the small pale boy shivering miserably against his stomach. The warmest room was probably the kitchen. And Mrs Patmore would know what to do.

The kitchen was indeed warm. But there was no sign of Mrs Patmore. Only a pot of hot chocolate keeping warm on the AGA and a pile of thick towels warming by the fire. Stephen stripped Nicky of his wet clothes and wrapped him in a warm towel. All the time Nicky remained silent.

"Nicky? What happened?" Stephen's Silvery eyes looked down kindly at the small boy, who was now sniffing unhappily against his towel.

"Jason's dead. I couldn't pull him out of the pond. He was too heavy and I'm too small." Nicky burst into tears. Throwing his arms around the big man's neck. Stephen sincerely hoped he was wrong.

Xx

There was a small door that led out of the herb garden. It had been many a kitchen maid's escape to meet her sweetheart on warm summer evenings in the heyday of the Manor. Now it was rarely used. Like the secret corridors and passages, no one knew it was there. It allowed access from the hall to the gardens without being seen. Quite handy. If you didn't want to be seen.

"Well, they say it's always the quiet ones you have to watch." Mrs Hudson tutted and adjusted her grip on the cricket bat. Once upon a time, as the letters scorched into the handle testified it had belonged to Napoleon Holmes, who had put away his childish things to play with the toys of war. Somehow no one had ever thrown the old cricket bat away. Which was just as well. It had remained where it had been left, by the kitchen door. Waiting.

"To be honest, I always had my doubts about this one. Always sneaking around when he thought no one was looking. Never liked him." Mrs Patmore prodded the unconscious figure of Henry the footman with a slippered toe.

"It's a miracle we didn't find him out before now." Mrs Hudson had not lessened her grip on the bat.

"A miracle? I'm afraid we've yet to see that." Mrs Patmore bustled back towards the kitchens. "I'm just going to ring for Mr Mallin. If he moves hit him again!"


	220. Lucky Number Seven

"Jason! Come on. Breathe." John pushed down on Jason's chest. Beside him Mycroft Holmes was pale faced.

"I think I broke his ribs John."

"Yeah that happens. Broken ribs we can fix. What the hell happened?"

"Nicky found him in the pond. He jumped in. Tried to pull him out. Unfortunately his belief in his own abilities often outstrips what he's actually capable of. He's just like Sherlock!"

"Where's Marcus?"

"In the house. He was resting. He sometimes has bad days." It had never occurred to John that Marcus might be less than one hundred percent all the time.

"Have we got help coming?"

"Yes. I have a number to call in the event of emergencies. They'll send a helicopter."

"Great. I could really do with a defibrillator unit. You should get one. For the house. Come on Jason!"

Sherlock still wasn't wearing shoes. Shoes were boring. Although he did keep his bare feet a respectable distance from John.

"Sherlock, where's Nicholas?"

"Stephen's looking after him. Should someone not get this boy's father?" Sherlock looked at his brother.

"Can you go? I don't want to leave him." Mycroft looked up at his brother, his blue eyes were so dark they looked almost black.

"Yes. Of course." Even with concentrating on the grim task in hand, John could detect a subtext to the conversation.

There was the sound of rotary blades overhead and a slight down draft. Moments later there were people. Equipment. The smell of aviation fuel. Radio chatter. And despite the cold. Despite knowing where he was and what he was doing, John could feel the invisible hook in his flesh pulling him back to Afghanistan. The world narrowed to the width of two hands. John's hands. The high pitched wine as the defibrillator charged.

"Clear!" And everyone sprang back. A macabre dance move.

"No output." The EMT to John's left watched the monitor. "How long has he been out?"

"Twenty minutes? But that pond is pretty cold."

"That's good. With any luck he will have gone hypothermic."

"And that's good?" Mycroft looked up.

"Yes Sir. When the body goes into hypothermic shock the brain shuts everything down. It's the difference between turning your computer off properly and just pulling the plug out of the wall. There will be less chance of organ and brain damage." The explanation was probably unnecessary for Mycroft but he nodded gratefully all the same. They shocked Jason again, the pads leaving angry red marks on his pale chest.

"Hang on. No. I thought we had something."

Xx

Jason found himself in a strange place. He thought it was a Churchyard, the kind they always had on the Miss Marple films. Neatly tended grass and tasteful floral tributes. And it was summer. He was sure he could hear bees buzzing and lawns being mowed and he could feel the warm sun on the back of his neck. And then Jason looked up. There was a boy standing by one of the graves, holding onto the collar of a large Black Labrador.

"Hello?" Jason heard his own voice, but it sounded distant. Like an echo. The boy smiled at him.

"Tell him from me that he still looks like a Giraffe." The sun suddenly stopped shining and Jason was in darkness.

Xx

"One more. Come on." John would keep trying. That was what he did. One more shock. Lucky number seven. Jason's tortured ribs flexed as the electricity hit. Mycroft was quite right, he had broken at least two of them.

"That's it. He's back!" The heartbeat was faint. But it was there.

"Right, let's get some warming mats on him and stabilise him. Then we'll get the Evac boys in."

"Doctor?"

John shook his head, realising what he'd just said.

"Sorry. Get him prepped for transport to hospital. Radio them to have a crash team standing by if he goes again and we need to re-warm his blood."

"Yes Doctor."

"JASON!" Marcus hatch was running awkwardly down the steps, half falling with every step. Mycroft was running to meet him, Sherlock made a mental note that it was twice in thirty years now, but he kept his observation to himself.


	221. Trussed Up

"Oh Stephen, there you are." Mrs Patmore bustled through the door of the kitchen. She poured a mug of something hot and steaming from the pan on top of the AGA and handed it to Nicky who was sitting on the well scrubbed table, huddled in his towel. "Could you be a love and go into the garden and help Mrs. Hudson? There's something that needs taking care of."

"Yes of course." Stephen made to go, but a small hand grabbed his jumper.

"Don't go Stephen." Nicky sniffed.

"I'll be back very soon. You drink that yummy hot chocolate. You need to warm up. And I need to go and help Mrs Hudson." Stephen's voice was kind, but Nicky couldn't help but notice the strange look in his eyes. Nicky turned to Mrs Patmore, who was just rubbing the damp Mephistopheles down with a towel.

"You just drink that all up Master Nicholas." She said it without looking up. Nicky took a sip, it was chocolaty, but there was another, spicy taste in it. He felt all the coldness leaving him.

"It's nice. What's in it?"

"Well Chocolate and milk mostly. And a few herbs. Master Sherlock was always partial to it." Mephistopheles, now sufficiently dried off, bounced up onto the table and nuzzled up against Nicky. The small boy put down his mug and wrapped his arms around the cat's neck. Mephistopheles began a low rhythmic purr. He could feel the tears wetting the top of his head, but felt it would be rude to call attention to it.

Xx

Mrs Hudson had trussed Henry up like the last chicken in the shop with an assortment of garden twine and a pair of handcuffs.

"That nice young Gregory LeStrade gave me them. He said they might come in handy if Sherlock ever ruined my worktops again." She explained. Stephen nodded his agreement. There wasn't a great deal you could say to that. Stephen hauled the still unconscious footman upright and then slung him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing.

"Mrs Hudson, would you be good enough to go and take Nicky out of the kitchen. Oh and could you ask Mrs Patmore to fill the sink with water for me?"

"I'd be delighted." Mrs Hudson went on her way.

Xx

Mycroft watched the helicopter leaving the grounds. He continued to watch until it was a tiny speck in the distance, before he finally turned away, back to the house. John and Marcus had both gone with Jason, and now it was just Sherlock, standing alone by the pond, his brother's footsteps retreating behind him. The surface of the water was still, mirror like. At the bottom of the pond Sherlock could see a few orange shapes moving about. Moving over the mosaic. Sherlock wondered how many times he had stared for hours at the bottom of the pond. How many times he had seen and failed to observe the strangeness of the picture, a complete contrast to the architecture of the pond. He needed more data. Checking that no one could see him, Sherlock slid into the chilly depths of the water to take a closer look.


	222. For the Sake of the Trust

Nicky peered out of his blanket. He was reduced to a pair of large eyes staring tearfully from a fluffy cocoon. Mrs Hudson had dried him off thoroughly and put him in warm pyjamas and his dressing gown before he was plonked on the sofa in the Television room. Somewhere in the purple depths of the blanket there was the sound of low, disgruntled purring. Nicky hugged Wordsworth tightly and waited, unaware of the scene unfolding in the kitchen.

Stephen Gray upended Henry in the sink once more. Water sloshed over the floor and Stephen's shoes.

"Who are you working for?" Stephen's tone was even. On the other side of the kitchen Mrs Patmore was cutting some toast into soldiers. The waterlogged footman gurgled and banged his hands on the draining board.

"No one."

"Wrong answer." Stephen forced him back into the sink. "Come on, who are you? Opus Dei? Freemasons? " He pulled Henry out by his hair.

"I didn't mean to hurt the boy."

"So you tried to drown him for his health?" Mrs Patmore had filled Stephen in on the salient points of the matter.

"I had to protect the..." Henry stopped and looked down at the snotty water.

"Protect what?" Henry closed his eyes, resigned to his fate as Stephen forced him down once again.

"That's enough Stephen." Arthur Mallin appeared from a side door. "I doubt he really knows anything of importance." Mallin looked at Henry for a moment.

"Yes. I don't know anything." Henry was squirming wetly in Stephen's meaty grip.

"You know who I am?"

"Of course I know who you are."

"Then you know something. But nothing of importance."

"No. No I don't." Henry looked like a rat looking for a way out of a drainpipe and realising there was only one exit.

"Good. Because if you did, well I'd have to let Stephen off of his leash."

"Mallin, that's enough." Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Very good My Lord." Mallin bowed and Henry went an even whiter shade of pale. The rat had realised there was no way out now.

"Now let's try again shall we? Whose was it?"

"His who is gone." Henry mumbled.

"Who shall have it?"

"He that shall come."

"What shall we give for it?"

"All that is ours."

"Why should we give it?"

"For the sake of the trust."

"What right have we to it?"

"The right of pure blood." Henry bowed his head and looked at the floor.

Mycroft turned to look at Mallin, questioning. The old butler shrugged. He had been told to keep the bloodline safe at all costs, no one had ever mentioned any of this. Except. Somewhere there was a conversation he couldn't quite recall. Something important. Buried. Hidden in plain sight.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, dripping and covered in pond slime. In one hand he was holding a rusty broadsword.

"Well." He said "That was tedious."


	223. The Sword in the Pond

"Master Sherlock! Stop dripping on my clean floor. Stand on the paper." Mrs Patmore's tone suggested she was as close to annoyed as she ever got. Sherlock looked to his left and sure enough, there were several squares of newspaper laid down on the floor, waiting for him. He sidestepped onto the Sunday Times, still holding the rusty sword.

"What is that?"

"It's a sword Mycroft." Sherlock looked smug for a split second before the tiny amount of commonsense he had told him not to annoy his brother when they were in the kitchen with access to cleavers. "I found it."

"Found it?"

"At the bottom of the pond. It was cleverly done. The distortion of the water made it seem two dimensional. It must have been in laying in there for years."

Mycroft examined the sword. It was a broadsword, probably an antique and made for someone tall and powerful by the length and weight of it. The keenness of the edge, despite its years submerged told him that it was a practical weapon, not a ceremonial sword. And there was engraving on the blade, running from hilt to tip.

Mycroft rubbed the hilt on his jumper, Mrs Patmore tutted and reached for a cloth.

"It's gold." Mycroft turned the sword so everyone could see the dull yellow of the hilt. There was a pattern worked into the metal, something that looked like two dragons facing each other. He gripped the sword in both hands, experimentally weighing it, checking it's balance. A shiver ran down his spine.

"You were trying to keep this safe Henry." Sherlock addressed the footman, who was dripping onto newspaper opposite him.

"Yes."

"What did they tell you would happen if the sword was discovered? That's the only thing I can't work out for myself. I'm sure it's something terrible with far reaching consequences? Tell me, and be precise."

"They said the kingdom would fall and hell would follow." All eyes were on Sherlock as Henry spoke.

"Whoops!"

Xx

Nicky snuggled up against Jonathan, who had been summoned by Mrs Hudson, and was currently reading The Three Musketeers in a falsely animated fashion to the small boy. Charlie was propped up on a cushion, clearly wondering what all the fuss was about, his brow furrowed as he tried to figure it out.

"Is Jason dead?" It seemed not even M'lady DeWinter was going to distract Nicky from his thoughts.

"No. He's very poorly and they've taken him to hospital, but he's not dead." Jonathan set the book down.

"I couldn't pull him out of the pond. The fishes tried to help, but they don't have hands." Nicky said it as though it made perfect sense. Jonathan nodded calmly. "Messy went and got Daddy. Daddy's not happy about his jeans." The vicious looking orange cat grinned toothily at Jonathan before licking one large clawed paw.

"You did really well. Do you feel ok?" Jonathan had already checked there was medication on standby, just in case.

"I feel sad. Behind my eyes. It keeps making me cry." Nicky snuggled closer to Jonathan and buried his face in his shirt.

At the other end of the sofa, Jonathan noted with some alarm that Charlie had grabbed hold of the giant cat and was happily sucking on one of its raggedy ears. The cat looked less smug, but resigned to its fate.


	224. Bodyguard

The darkness gave way to bright light. Sunshine was streaming in through the blinds. That must be good, thought Jason, because ponds didn't have blinds. He still felt cold, but could feel warmth from the blankets seeping into his body. He opened his eyes more fully, taking in the surroundings. Hospital. Definitely hospital.

He remembered the blackness of the pond. Or perhaps the blackness was after that. After the giraffes. That must have been something to do with Nicky. The little guy was obsessed with them. Not that there was anything wrong with that, just most kids that age were into tanks or trains or stuff like that. Although as Jason thought on it, at that age he'd been quite into Manatees.

But it had been black. And something else. Like a different colour. One that had no name in the living world. A colour for the dead. And after that, small hands and orange flashes. And then the p-ain in his chest. And his whole body. And that bone biting cold like his blood had turned to slush.

And the Manatee.

"Andre!" It didn't quite sound like his voice as it croaked out. Andre had been the name of the soft toy Manatee he'd hung around with for a while. He wondered what had happened to it.

"Hello?" Another strange voice. The English was perfect but accented. Jason opened his eyes and saw the anxious face looking at him.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Alain, I am your body guard. I'll get your father." From what Jason could see from his prone position, Alain was huge and blond and dressed in a black suit. Dad was really going to like him.

"I have a body guard?" Jason said it to no one in particular. "Cool!"

"Jason!" The door opened and Marcus Hatch, looking tired and drawn was ushered inside by Alain. "I just went for some coffee. I'm sorry."

"Hey dad." Jason croaked. Alain quietly slipped from the room.

"How are you feeling?"

"Cold. And my ribs hurt." He paused then added quickly. "I didn't do it on purpose to ruin your weekend. Someone pushed me in."

"Why on earth would you think that I would think that?"

"Well, because of what I said about Lord Gin... Mycroft."

"Right."

"I've got a body guard."

"Yes I saw."

"He's French, I think."

"Very observant."

"Has he got a gun?"

"Yes. He's ex French Special Forces. He can kill a man with his bare hands he doesn't need a gun. Don't make him angry." There was a certain wistful admiration in the Doctor's voice.

"Do you like him?" Jason smiled painfully at his father. Marcus blushed.

"Dad you're allowed to look at the menu providing you eat at home."

"Jason. Enough." Marcus looked up to check the door was closed. "And besides, he's very straight."

"Ha! Knew it. You are so predictable." Jason's laugh turned into a coughing fit, which brought tears to his eyes. The door opened quickly and the handsomely-ugly face of the Frenchman peered in.

"Is he okay?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"The broken ribs are no good." Alain said sympathetically. "Oh and your Maman is here."

"Mum's here! She'll kill us both. Alain save us?"

"I'm sorry. I cannot get involved with the family argument." Jason could not be sure but he was certain that his serious looking bodyguard was trying not to laugh.

The door was opened fully and Marcus and Jason found themselves facing the diminutive and extremely formidable presence of Jason's mother. Under one arm she was carrying a slightly squashed looking bundle of grey-blue fur.


	225. Cat's Eye View

The cat seized his moment to escape when Charlie was distracted and trying to grab the bottom of Nicky's blanket. He slinked off the sofa and headed towards the kitchen, where he felt far more exciting things were going to be happening. And besides his ear was getting soggy from the gummy attention of the baby.

"Hm-nya." Charlie muttered and began a concerted assault on the bottom of the blanket. Nicky looked at Charlie for a moment, before sighing dramatically and disappearing into the purple depths. Jonathan looked at the baby who was dribbling in a concerned manner onto the sofa. Charlie looked at Jonathan with wide eyed confusion. Nicky always wanted to play. Charlie's bottom lip began to tremble and he held out his arms uncertainly towards Jonathan. In spite of everything, Jonathan couldn't help but give a small smile. It was the first time Charlie had done that.

Xx

Mephistopheles was perfectly correct. The kitchen was far more interesting. The big tall ginger one that smelled nice looked cross. The thinner tall one that smelled like the cleaning cupboard was soaking wet (Mephistopheles had once been shut up in the cleaning cupboard by mistake and had developed a serious dislike for cleaning products after that.) The really big one that smelled of lemons was holding Henry in the sink. Mrs Patmore had the kettle on. She only ever had the kettle on in company when it was serious.

That meant there was no chance of being fed. He decided the best place was probably under the table where there was less chance of getting trodden on. Unseen, he slinked under and watched the feet. You could tell a lot from feet.

And a lot from all the shouting. Even if you couldn't exactly speak the language.

"You're not going to hit me are you Mycroft? It's only a sword. Don't tell me you believe in all this end of the world thing?"

"I am amazed Sherlock, that with everything going on you still want this to be about you. Grow up."

There was huffing, dripping and scraping of chairs from above. Mephistopheles noticed a piece of biscuit under a chair and stealthily made his way towards it, stretching a single claw out so as not to draw too much attention to himself. He noticed thinner tall's bare feet. They were leaving damp prints on the floor. He also noticed with some satisfaction the ragged edge of big tall ginger's jeans. Although Mephistopheles did feel bad about that. He retrieved his biscuit and wondered if there was some way he could make it up.

"Erm, Mycroft, I think you should come and sit with Nicky for a while, poor little guy is a bit stressed out by everything." Jonathan was holding a sniffling Charlie.

"Yes of course." Mycroft picked up the Egg and Soldiers Mrs Patmore had prepared. The soldiers were cut into the shape of Daleks. The eggs had small red fezzes keeping them warm. "Lock him in the coal pantry." Mycroft gave a withering look to Henry. "Sherlock, I will talk to you later."

Mycroft left the kitchen to the sounds of footman struggling with twenty stones of cultured thuggery and the distinct noise of Sherlock yelping as his feet were attacked by the cat.


	226. Under Covers

Whilst used to negotiating with statesmen and world leaders on a daily basis, Mycroft Holmes was rapidly discovering that it was no training for trying to hold a conversation with a seven nearly eight year old. Especially one who was refusing to come out of his blanket. Mycroft was in the curious position of trying to entreat an audience with the small purple lump on the sofa. Apart from the occasional sniff and the sound of nose being wiped on sleeve, the lines of communication were down.

"Mrs Patmore has made you some yummy egg and soldiers." The offer of supplies usually worked in these situations.

"I don't want anything. Leave me alone." The voice had a note of tragic martyr to it. Hunger strike as well it seemed.

Mycroft was stumped. And really wishing Marcus was there. He seemed to know exactly what to do in these situations. Mycroft shivered, he was still damp from the pond and desperately hoping that the day would end with everyone still alive. He knew from bitter personal experience that was not always the case.

"Nicky. Nicholas, please come out of the blanket."

"No."

"Nicholas!" The tone in his voice was the same one that made senior members of the government quake. The blanket and its occupant remained unmoved. Mycroft decided to try an ultimatum.

"I am going to get changed. When I return I want you out of this blanket and eating your Egg and Soldiers. Do you understand?" There was a non-committal sniff. Mycroft went to change. The blanket didn't move.

Xx

The bedroom smelled faintly musky. Tired aftershave and sweat mingling with laundry soap. The bed had been changed. Fresh linens and a new deep burnt orange cover. The clothes discarded from the previous evening had been taken away to be laundered or dry-cleaned. There were clean towels in the en-suite, which sparkled. Mycroft sighed. Everything was as it should be. Life went on. The manor continued, just as it had always done. Oblivious to the events unfolding within and around it. The windows of his bedroom were thrown open to air the room. Wrapping a towel around his waist, Mycroft went to close the windows.

The room was at the back of the house and had once belonged to his Grandfather. It was joined by a concealed spiral staircase with the room above it, which had been his Grandmother's. Her portrait still looked out over the gardens. Her room was the one room that remained unaltered. It had been maintained, repainted, cleaned, the bed linens regularly changed of course. But never altered. It was still the shrine to Gabriel Holmes' lost love that it had always been. Mycroft looked out of the window, the chilly air blowing against his bare torso. He scratched his belly. And looked down at the paved terrace below. His eyes narrowed and he hurriedly pulled the window closed.

Xx

"So this is what you and your posh boyfriend call looking after him is it?"

"Mum!"

"He's sixteen, I can't keep him under house arrest."

"Did you know there was a madman on the loose at Lord Snooty's house?"

"Mum!"

"There are madmen on the loose everywhere. It's not knowing about them that allows me to sleep at night."

"This is the last time he's going anywhere with you."

"Mum!"

"I don't know whether you noticed or not, but there is now an armed guard outside the door. Mycroft has arranged twenty four hour protection for Jason."

"If you weren't going out with that idiot Jason wouldn't need the hunky gendarme out there."

"Mum!"

"I thought the first thing you'd notice was that he was hunky and French."

"Like you didn't!"

"Mum, Dad! I'm right here." The two adults paused and looked at their son. "It wasn't Mycroft's fault. It wasn't anybody's fault."

Josephine patted her son's knee and deposited a slightly confused looking Manatee on the bed.

"I don't know why but he was the first thing I grabbed. There was a limousine waiting for me outside the house and the man at the door had an earpiece and a gun. I assume that's courtesy of the mysterious Mr Holmes as well?"

"Yes."

"Excuse me." The door had been pushed open quietly and the big Frenchman was filling the frame. "Everything is all right? Good. Ah the... lamantin. They are the elephants of the sea." Alain patted Andre with a large hand and flashed Josephine a smile that oozed Gallic sexuality before silently leaving the room.

Marcus smiled weakly at the mother of his son. She smiled weakly back.

"If either one of you says the words we only want what's best for you, I'm going to ask Mycroft to adopt me." Jason picked up Andre and hugged him. Andre's inner squeaker meeped asthmatically in agreement.


	227. On the Safe Side

Sherlock was aware of the small purple ball huddled in one corner of the sofa. He ignored it. He was more interested in the Dalek shaped toast. He sniffed cautiously, checking for marmite and other poisons. You could never be too careful. Not with Daleks. Or marmite.

Having judged the coast to be clear of marmite, Sherlock crunched the toast and waited. Strangely Dalek toast tasted different to regular toast. Not as good as pirate plank toast of course, but it wasn't bad.

"That's my toast!" A corner of the blanket spoke.

"Obviously!" Sherlock continued to eat.

"Why are you eating my toast?" A gingery-blond curly head and a pair of red-green eyes were now peering out from the purple depths.

"You weren't eating it."

Nicky pulled a face. Like the face John pulled when he found something particularly nasty in the salad drawer. The blanket was pulled back over his head and he resumed his sulking. Sherlock resumed his toast crunching. More loudly. A few moments later the blanket spoke once more.

"If you are going to eat my toast will you at least eat it quietly?" Nicky sounded so much like his father in that instant, that Sherlock paused mid chew.

"Why don't you come out of there? Are you scared of something?" Sherlock was fascinated. He wondered if Mycroft had ever done anything like this. Sherlock knew he had. Many times and had usually been a lot ruder.

"No. Go away. You smell of pond!" That was more like it.

"You'd know! My fish were very upset about everyone jumping in and spoiling their quiet Sunday."

"Your fish?" Nicky emerged almost fully from the blanket.

"Yes. The fish are mine. Were mine. Originally. My father made the pond for me. It was probably the only nice thing he ever did." And as he spoke Sherlock tried to recall how the pond had come about.

"The fish are magic. Sort of. I think."

"Shush. I need to go to my mind palace. Eat some toast or something."

"That's just a stupid way of saying you're trying to remember something." Nicky moved his blanket to the opposite side of the room, selecting two pieces of toast to take with him. Wordsworth was quite relieved to be free of the confines of the blanket but a little worried that Nicky seemed rather upset. Sometimes he wished he had back up.

Xx

Jason watched as the awkward silence between his parents filled the room.

It was always the same.

Marcus Hatch was never supposed to be anything more than a sperm donor. Jason's mum had been at the nurses' school when his dad had been a medical student, having completed his preclinicals at Oxford. The first time she had met him he had been very drunk and trying to ride a bicycle with no handlebars. That had resulted in him needing stitches, which Josephine had inserted meticulously but with slight terror as she'd never stitched anything more alive than an orange up to that point.

He'd been in the officers mess room on board HMS Jupiter when he'd received the news of Josephine's pregnancy. He'd sat down and prescribed himself a large quantity of Brandy and then as an officer and a gentleman, he'd asked her to marry him. She had laughed for a good twenty minutes. And then said no.

And it seemed sixteen years later she was still saying no. Jason looked from one parent to another. His mum looked angry. His dad looked sad.

"Where did those come from?" Josephine was looking at the soggy Converse that were drying by the radiator.

"They were a present."

"From Mycroft as well I suppose? I'm not entirely sure I approve of him giving Jason expensive presents." Jason looked imploringly at his father to stay silent about the cello. He knew his mum was only focusing on the irrelevant shoes because she was worried. But the multi-thousand pound cello might just tip her over the edge.

"It's not like that mum; he's...he's all right." High praise indeed from a teenager who's enthusiasm usually never extended beyond grunting. Just to be on the safe side, Marcus decided to recheck Jason's temperature and pupil reactions. Just to be safe.


	228. Unhappy Valentine

Mycroft looked down at the blanket that was ignoring him. Other than a smattering of toast crumbs on the floor there were no signs that the occupant was prepared to cooperate. But very slowly the blanket was pushed back and Mycroft found himself looking down at a very tearful little boy and a rather cross looking Giraffe. Nicky held up his arms and Mycroft hoisted him up, leaving the blanket and some nibbled crusts behind. He still held on tightly to Wordsworth's tail.

"I'm sorry." He buried his face in his father's collar. Mycroft was wearing the pink checked shirt that Marcus had bought him. The material was brushed and soft and one of Nicky's hands stroked down Mycroft's shoulder.

"It's all right. We're all new at this. Shall we go and see if Mrs Patmore has any cake?"

"Carrot cake? I like carrot cake! So does Wordsworth." Mycroft swallowed hard as he remembered another boy called Nicholas who had loved Mrs Patmore's carrot cake. It seemed he hadn't quite outrun all the ghosts just yet.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock's voice made him jump. Mycroft did not like how quickly his heart seemed to be pounding against his chest.

"Sherlock!" He took a deep breath to steady himself. Nicky put his head against Mycroft's chest.

"Can you remember what was there before the pond was built?"

Mycroft flicked through his mind. Steps going down. Running down them. Falling over. His smashed sunflower. Blood. Earth. A plain stone slab. Weathered. Faded markings. But somehow there was a mist over it all. Nothing was clear. Not like it usually was where every second of every day he had spent dragging his miserable self over the earth was remembered in bright, sharp relief.

"Mycroft?" But he didn't answer.

"It's all right Daddy. Let's go and have some cake and you might remember." A small hand patted his slightly stubbly jaw, breaking his thoughts.

"Yes Mycroft. Go and have some cake! Stop thinking so loudly." Sherlock draped himself over the sofa and dismissed his brother with a contemptuous wave of his hand. Nicky was about to say something but was whisked from the room before he could speak.

Xx

Jonathan had returned to his files, with a rather grumpy Charlie in tow. Charlie clearly was not keen on paperwork. Jonathan was beginning to dislike it intensely as well. It was rather like lifting up big rocks. All sorts of unpleasant things crawled out. The big rock he was currently lifting up was disguised as a buff folder, nearly three inches thick. Printed on the front in neat pre-computerisation handwriting the name STEPHEN GRAY.

Jonathan took a deep breath and opened the folder. Charlie became very interested in his aardvark's nose. Of course Jonathan knew that there would be a file on Stephen somewhere. Just not like this. Not a sealed file. A file that had been sealed many years ago. There was a picture of Stephen. At least it looked a bit like him. His hair was dark, and he was thinner. And this past Stephen smiled up at Jonathan as he read. This other Stephen Gray had not simply been a person of interest, a passive bystander. He had been recruited at university. Sent on any number of dubious errands by some unknown pre-Mycroft government official. And every one of these recorded duties in the file, and there were at least two hundred neat entries. All with the prefix code VALENTINE. And all ending with a triple X. Jonathan knew the Xs were not kisses. Unless it was a kiss of death.


	229. Valentine's Day 1985

Apart from a slightly damp patch by the sink, the kitchen was empty. On the freshly scrubbed table, and in Mycroft's memory he had never seen it not freshly scrubbed, there was a plate of carrot cake and two glasses of lemonade. Mycroft set Nicky down on the floor. Somewhere under the table the distinctive sound of large purring cat could be heard.

Nicky perched himself on the chair nearest the fire and took a slurp of lemonade. The under-table purring increased.

"Don't be cross with Messy, he only wanted to get your attention. And he is sorry." Nicky tried to explain. From where Mycroft was standing the cat didn't look the slightest bit sorry. In fact the cat looked slightly smug. Mycroft was somewhat alarmed to see that Nicky was using the beast as a furry foot warmer. Nicky did not seem to share his concerns and was taking a bite out of a huge slice of carrot cake. He paused in his chewing. "Is the pond important?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The pond. Is it important?"

"I'm not sure."

"It probably is. Everything here seems all linked up. Like the fish and the picture at the bottom of the pond and the books in the library. Everything."

"What about the books in the library?"

"The man in the picture in the pond is in one of the books in the library. But in the book the knight isn't asleep." Nicky said it in the matter of fact tone Sherlock often used.

"What is the knight doing?" Mycroft wasn't quite sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"He's doing something with a sword." Nicky took another large bite of cake, clearly determined to eat as much as he could before someone stopped him. "He's sticking it in a big rock."

"Oh." Mycroft reached for the cake.

Xx

VALENTINE/SMG/MGH.

It was the last file in the folder. A single piece of paper. It would be the same as all the other pieces of paper. Just another record kept. That was all. Jonathan had read through the contents of the file, through Stephen's secret service profile. It was a lot not good. The litany of assassinations seemed to go on forever. Stephen was a killer. Big, cuddly Stephen was a cold blooded killer, every bit as detached as Mycroft when it came to doing his duty. His brief had been simple and never varied. Target was acquired, chatted up, taken out to dinner by the handsome charming young man Stephen had been in his youth. And after a short and no doubt pleasant interval of vigorous intercourse, the target was dispatched. And everything was reported in detail.

Graphic detail.

Jonathan felt rather ill. Stephen's codename had been Mantis. It was just wrong. And Jonathan couldn't help listen to the little voice of his inner paranoia which wanted to know if he was next.

And then there had been this last file. This assignment had differed from the others and had taken place sometime earlier in Stephen's career. (The files didn't seem to be in any particular order.) This one differed in that it had not been an assassination. It was recruitment.

The target had been acquired as he had left his Cambridge College and had been suitably wined and dined until, by mutual agreement, both target and Stephen had adjourned to an expensive hotel. There was yet another graphic account of how the target had been extremely nervous and had finally confessed to being a virgin halfway through the act. Reassuring noises, rather than the muzzle of a gun had been employed and the mission had been completed with the confused young man in question being successfully recruited.

Jonathan read the file twice, wondering what sick joke the world was playing on him this time. It was the last sentence that was the worst.

"...Mycroft Gabriel Holmes Recruited. 14th February 1985."


	230. Pauses Between Silences

Charlie wiped his nose in two snotty streaks down the front of Stephen's shirt. Stephen hoisted the slightly damp baby a little higher up. Charlie glared at him, then at Jonathan and reviewed his options. Wailing had done nothing. Neither had throwing his Aardvark. And whimpering had just been ignored. As Charlie saw it, he had two courses of action. Poo or Puke. Or possibly both.

"I thought you liked me." Jonathan was livid. And it was a remarkable that when Jonathan got angry all trace of his stammer disappeared, burnt up in his anger.

"I do like you." Stephen adjusted his grip on the wriggling child.

"Or am I just another assignment? Another set of orders?"

"I don't do that anymore."

"So you're not denying it. This is you?" Jonathan brandished the file like a weapon.

"It seems a bit pointless denying it when you've read the file. Jonny, what is this about?"

"You. And him." Stephen didn't need to ask which him. Jonathan looked at Stephen, the hurt blazing behind his eyes. "Did you like him too? I assume you did as he didn't end up dead like all the rest of them. How many people did you kill? Because I've counted a hundred and fifty seven. That's not including my brother by the way." Jonathan snatched Charlie from Stephen. Charlie started to wail, thought better of it and brought his last feed up on Jonathan's sweater. Now that got their attention.

For a moment. And then Charlie found himself set down, quite roughly, on the sofa. Artie lay forlornly on the floor, his black eyes looking quizzically up at proceedings. Charlie deeply regretted hurling him there. He looked up at the storm raging above his head. Charlie started to cry more forcefully.

"It was twenty five years ago. It was my job."

"You certainly seemed to enjoy your work. What else was in the job description?"

"You know damn well. You send people on these assignments all the time, and don't pretend you don't."

"Exactly. And I know what kind of people we employ there. I interview most of them. We scrape them off of the street corners. Whores and Junkies. Which one were you?"

"I was a Medieval History Graduate from Oxford. I was just twenty-one. And some guy turned up offering me the chance to play James Bond and get paid a small fortune for doing it. I bit his hand off. What else was I going to do? I had no family obligations. The person I thought I was in love with was never going to look at me... I thought it would be a laugh."

"A laugh? It was when? Early eighties? What about AIDS?" Jonathan paused. "I never even thought to ask you. I was so wrapped up in everything I never even thought to ask you."

"It's fine. I'm clean. DNA was in its infancy, but if we knew about it, we were sure other governments did."

"Oh well that's some comfort at least." Jonathan's voice dripped with sarcasm. Charlie continued to weep on the sofa.

Xx

Nicky had fallen asleep in his father's lap whilst Mycroft and Sherlock had been arguing over a volume of family history in the library. Mycroft's knee had begun to go numb. Normally, he would have rather risk permanent paralysis than admit any weakness to Sherlock. But now it all seemed rather pointless.

"Sherlock, hold Nicholas for me for a moment. I need to stretch my legs."

"What?" Sherlock looked somewhat alarmed as the small boy was deposited on top of him. Mycroft stood on slightly wobbly legs and worked the cramp out of his knee. "You're just not built for running, Mycroft."

"Gentleman usually aren't."

Nicky twisted slightly in his sleep. Before slowly winding his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"What's he doing? Mycroft?"

"He's hugging you. Now you are clean I assume he likes your smell."

"What do I do? How do I make it stop? Where's John? He'll know what to do."

"On his way back from the hospital." Mycroft rubbed his sore knee some more. "Oh give him here Sherlock." Mycroft reached down to relieve his brother of small boy, but Nicky clung, limpet like, to his Uncle's neck.

"I think he wants to stay here." Sherlock managed to look both disgusted and smug at the same time. Which was something of an achievement, even for him. "He can stay as long as he doesn't...wet."

"Sherlock, he's not a baby." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"He's not a grown up." Sherlock looked suspicious.

"Neither are you. Now do shut up." Mycroft paced the room. In the silence he could hear the sound of his son's slightly whistly breath. And further off in another room, harsh voices and the sound of a baby crying.


	231. What's Past is Prologue

"What's going on boys?" John Watson looked in on the room where all the noise was coming from. On the sofa Charlie stopped crying and looked up hopefully at John, his chubby cheeks quite red with misery.

"Erm..." Jonathan had been stopped mid sentence.

"Charlie. Are you all right mate?" John stooped down and picked Charlie up. The baby was damp and smelled as though his nappy needed changing.

"Uhngnh!" Charlie stretched out a hand.

"Do you want your Aardvark?" John retrieved Artie from the floor. "What's he doing on the floor eh? Poor Artie." Charlie closed his arms around Artie's orange fur. John turned to look at the now silent pair stood before him.

"How's Jason?" Stephen broke the silence, his voice sounding a little hoarse.

"He's fine. No lasting damage." John looked from one man to the other. "What is going on? This poor little guy has been crying for ages; look at the state of him. What's so important you can ignore him?" John was actually quite angry. So angry he was hurting in his armpits.

"Well... you see..." Jonathan began but John cut him off.

"I don't want to hear it. Whatever it is sort it out."

"He slept with Mycroft!"

"What recently?" This was news to John. Charlie chewed Artie's ear.

"It was 1984, John." Stephen sighed.

"That's very Orwellian of you. That's what this is about? Something that happened last century? Well I'm so glad it was nothing trivial."

"It's not trivial." Jonathan's anger was rising. "He slept with Mycroft. He was an operative for the British Government. He should have told me. You have no idea how that makes me feel. Finding it out from a file!"

"Yes of course. I have no idea how you feel. I couldn't possibly know what it feels like to discover that the person you love isn't who you think they are and that they weren't a virgin before they met you. Because obviously you are the only person in the world that has ever happened to. Is it actually the fact he didn't tell you. Or the fact it was Mycroft?"

"What?!"

"That you're so upset about. That Stephen got in where you didn't?" John knew it was cruel, but there was method in it.

"John, that's not fair." Stephen had taken a step towards him. John was taking a gamble. If Stephen hit him, it would probably hurt. A lot. But John still hadn't quite come back down from his earlier adrenaline high. Mycroft was quite correct. He missed the battlefield.

"And why is it not fair?" At this point, Charlie held Artie up protectively in front of them both as Stephen loomed large. His pupils had shrunk to tiny black pin-pricks and those rather creepy silver eyes were staring at John with menace. "And why do you care any way?"

"I care because I love him. All the others were just work assignments. A job. Nothing. But this is different. That's why I care." Stephen towered over John.

"Well that wasn't so hard was it?" John looked at the two stunned faces in front of him. "Sort it out. I'm going to take this little chap for a nappy change and maybe a bath. Sorry mate but you smell."

"Gnah!" Charlie clearly agreed.

"And when we get back, I think he's going to want his daddy. Both his daddies. Okay?" John didn't wait to see if it was okay or not. Because right there and then, as he walked from the room carrying a much happier looking Charlie, John Watson felt invincible.


	232. View From The Sink

Charlie peered over the edge of the sink. It wasn't quite what he'd been expecting, but he wasn't complaining. At least he was clean now. And he had a spoon. You could do a lot with a spoon. Like splash water everywhere, for example.

In an act of desperate inspiration, Mrs Hudson had filled the large Belfast sink in the kitchen with warm water and nice smelling lavender oil. Although John suspected she might have done it before and he had visions of baby Mycroft sitting in there, gurgling and plotting.

Mephistopheles peered at the child in the kitchen sink and retreated to a safe distance. Charlie gurgled happily and turned his attention to John Watson, who was tucking in to a large piece of fruit cake. The slitted green gaze of the cat followed. He purred. And jumped down onto the floor.

Mrs Hudson scooped some water over Charlie, who banged his spoon with increased enthusiasm. He was a lot happier now he was clean. And out of that nappy. And someone was paying him attention.

"Where did that cat come from?" John asked. The cat looked up at him and purred once more.

"He's the house cat. Keeps the mice down." Mrs Hudson picked Charlie up and wrapped him a towel.

"Gnauh!" Charlie agreed and waved his fists cat-wards.

"He's a bit big for a regular house cat. Are you part tiger, mister?" John bent down to the cat. Messy looked up at him, sniffing experimentally at the out stretched hand before licking a few cake crumbs up with a rough tongue. And then in a slightly unnerving way, he rolled over to be tickled. It seemed the cat thought John Watson was all right. A low rumble began somewhere deep in the cat's chest. Mephistopheles was purring.

Xx

Jason looked up nervously at the Doctor who was prodding his fingertips with tiny probes. A computer was beeping with every prod.

"Is that entirely necessary?" Marcus had never seen a procedure like this before.

"Well, Mr Holmes was quite insistent Sir."

"What exactly are you doing?"

"Checking for nerve damage."

"Nerve damage?" Jason looked at his father, eyes wide.

"It will all be fine, J, don't worry."

Xx

The Volvo looked rather out of place as it made steady, reliable progress up the drive way and came to a full stop on the gravel outside the house. Mycroft Holmes looked casually out of the window, his pale complexion blanching a little more. Sherlock looked up at his brother, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

"Don't tell me you forgot about Anthea? Or Ariadne or Athena or whatever it is today."

"I didn't forget. I merely filed it under things that can wait till later."

"You forgot!" Sherlock paused. "She's going to kill you. You do know that? Completely kill you."

"Shut up Sherlock." Mycroft swallowed hard. Nicky turned on the sofa, hitting Sherlock in the face with giraffe.

Through the window, Mycroft could see Anthea, in her off duty clothes, standing by the passenger door. A tall, slim, dark haired man was getting out of the driver's side. The man looked up at the house, running his fingers through his floppy hair as he did so. Mycroft wasn't entirely sure the man was all that impressed. He said something and Anthea laughed. Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

"You're jealous!" Sherlock was carefully adjusting the cushions around Nicky so he wouldn't slide off the sofa.

"What?"

"You're jealous. That Nicholas is going to like Anthea's new boyfriend. He is rather good looking. He looks a bit like that chap that plays Doctor Who."

"It's The Doctor. Not Doctor Who. Doctor Who is the name of the programme. Get it right."

Sherlock smirked. As soon as Mycroft had found out Nicky liked Doctor Who, he had requested the entire BBC back catalogue of programmes. Including some episodes that no one knew about. Sherlock suspected his brother had spent rather a lot of time watching them.

"Anyway. I think Anthea should take Nicholas home. She does have a house I assume? That way we can get to the bottom of what is going on here. Without you being distracted. I don't like it when you are distracted. You're all weird and mushy. All these children and dinner parties and cats. It's all so noisy. I can't think properly. Please. Mycroft. Send Nicholas and everyone home. Then it will be just us. Like it used to be."

Mycroft turned his attention to his brother, as the sounds of the front door opening and low voices filtered down the corridor. Footsteps were approaching.

"And you accuse me of being jealous? Really Sherlock? I would have thought you'd know better by now."

There was a knock and the door was opened. Anthea smiled.

"How's it been?" She looked at her son, asleep on the sofa hugging his giraffe. Mycroft took a deep breath.

"He knows." Mycroft shot a look at Sherlock promising murder.

"Oh."

"He worked it out. We knew he would."

"How did he take it?"

"Fine. He's been calling me daddy."

"And you're all right with that?"

"I think so."

On the sofa, Nicky stirred, rolling over and looking up blurrily.

"Hello darling." Anthea scooped him up into a big hug. "Have you had a nice time?"

"It's been excellent. Sherlock's skull is actually a headless footman, his body is in the woods, and Mrs Hudson fainted. But I did say I was sorry. And then Jason fell in the pond and nearly drowned, but a helicopter came and took him to hospital. And I've had cake. And biscuits. And hot chocolate. Oh and Uncle Mycroft is really my Daddy. But he said you already knew. Is there any cake left?"

Anthea looked at her son, then at Mycroft, who had gone rather pink about the ears. And then at Sherlock who was discreetly trying to tiptoe towards the door. The doorway was suddenly filled with the animated form of Anthea's boyfriend. Nicky wriggled back down onto the sofa.

"Hello! I'm David! " He bounced into the room with a big smile. Clearly not getting the reaction he had been expecting he looked at Anthea. "What's going on?"

Unseen by the grownups, Mephistopheles slinked into the room and bounced up onto the sofa, draping himself across Nicky and looking for all the world like a malevolent stripy cushion. Nicky, sensing he had said the wrong thing, buried his face in cat's broad fluffy back.

"David. This is Mycroft Holmes. And his brother Sherlock." David smiled nervously. "And this is my son, Nicholas."


	233. Facts About Birds and Bees

"What is that?" If the cat had eyebrows it would have raised them at the question. David the boyfriend took a step back. There was something knowing in the green slitted eyes that were looking at him. He had a suspicion that the cat didn't like him.

"It's a cat, obviously!" Nicky sounded so much like Sherlock that Anthea did a double take.

"Darling, you know cats irritate your asthma." She spoke gently, but firmly.

"This one doesn't!" To illustrate his point he wrapped his arms around Mephistopheles' neck and took a deep sniff. The cat smelled of cinnamon. "You'll hurt his feelings mummy!"

Mummy doubted that the animated rug currently draped across her son had feelings that could be hurt. The cat smiled a smug, toothy grin at her.

"Mycroft? Could I have a word?" The tall man had managed to regain his composure, making a mental note of his brother's attempt to flee the scene at the earliest opportunity. He looked at his assistant, and then at his small son, who was buried under stripy cat. Nicky looked up, with that slightly unnerving expression that reminded Mycroft of his dead friend that made him glad and his chest hurt at the same time.

"Daddy, may I be excused please? I'm going to take Messy for a walk. Especially as you are going to start talking about me." The cat had already hopped off the sofa and was waiting expectantly.

"Yes. But don't leave the house."

"I won't" The room of adults watched as Nicky walked out of the room, the large cat walking patiently to heel beside him. Anthea turned to Mycroft.

"You don't actually need to say anything. I do already know. My first weekend of parenting has not been my finest hour." Mycroft paused.

"But, well no one is dead. Other than the footman. And that was a long time ago. And on the plus side, mother is no longer a concern. And there might be some kind of conspiracy thing going on, but nothing to worry about." Sherlock smiled. He thought he was helping. Mycroft looked at the floor, he could really do without Sherlock's help. Helpful Sherlock was even worse than Sherlock in full sabotage mode. "Does anyone want tea? I'll make tea?" Sherlock was getting desperate.

"Sit down. The pair of you." Obediently Mycroft and Sherlock sat next to one another on the vacated sofa. Mycroft chewed anxiously at the nail of his right middle finger. Sherlock remembered that was something his brother used to do. Years ago. A half remembered echo of the boy he used to be.

"I wasn't expecting a normal weekend. Not with you two involved. But I was expecting him to be safe. Mycroft, we agreed a long time ago that he was never to know. That if he knew then we couldn't possibly keep him safe."

"He worked it out for himself." It was Sherlock who replied. "After all, he looks just like Mycroft but smaller. Did you have him cloned? I assume the whole transaction took place in a test tube somewhere and you didn't actually..." Mycroft's hand connected sharply with the back of his brother's head. "Ow!"

"Quiet!

Anthea looked from one to the other. She was waiting.

Xx

"Ungnic!" Charlie gestured as the kitchen door was opened and small boy and large cat entered.

"Hello Charlie!" Nicky smiled. Charlie held out his arms, relieved that Nicky's previous good humour had been restored. Messy purred hopefully. The kitchen was where the food was and there was a hint of tuna in the air.

"Hello Nicky, are you all right?" John looked the boy over quickly and was surprised when he suddenly found his lower half enveloped in a hug. He knelt down so he was level with the bright green eyes. "What was that for?"

"For being brilliant!" Messy rubbed against John's leg in agreement. "See. Even Messy thinks so."

"Ok."

"Daddy thinks so as well. Only he won't ever say. Not in words. Mummy is telling him and Uncle Sherlock off because she thinks I've not been looked after properly. But I have. It's just this house. It isn't a happy place. Or at least it never has been before." Nicky sighed. So did the cat. "And mummy thinks I'm allergic to Messy. But I'm not. He must have special fur." The cat smugly fluffed up his ginger fur and looked on knowingly.

"Ka! Ka! Gnuk!" Charlie was wriggling in John's arms.

"Yes Charlie. He's a special cat." In addition to his skills at Kerplunk and facial reconstruction, it seemed Nicky could speak both cat and baby fluently. John expected that would come in quite handy. And then with one of those strange leaps of conversation that children often make, and Sherlock was rather good at too Nicky asked the question. "John. What's dying like?"

John was silent for a full minute. He sat down on one of the scrubbed wooden chairs. Charlie perched on his knee expectantly.

"I don't really know what it's like. I know what it isn't like. It isn't all clouds and angels and fanfares. When I was shot there wasn't really anything. Just black. But maybe that's because I wasn't really dead?"

"Yes. I suppose so." Nicky looked thoughtful for a moment. Nicky sat on the floor of the kitchen and Mephistopheles curled around him. "Everyone has to die some time don't they?"

"Yes. I'm sorry but they do."

"It seems like a very silly way of doing things. The way you love things and then they die. There doesn't seem any point." He sighed. John slipped from the seat onto the floor, carefully holding on to Charlie, who seemed quite excited with proceedings.

"Your Daddy used to say that caring wasn't an advantage. There was no profit in love. It didn't make you better, or clever or help you. Sometimes it makes everything worse. When people you love die, or they disappoint you, or turn out not to be what you thought they were. And it is the easiest thing in the world to not do it. Because if you don't love, then you don't lose things you love." John eased his grip on Charlie , who made a spirited crawl for freedom from his towel.

"It isn't fair. All the things we love die!" John wasn't quite sure what had bought on this particular line of conversation.

"Yes. Yes they do."

"Why did Mummy and Daddy want me? I know how babies are supposed to happen. And I didn't happen like that. I was made in a laboratory, like Frankenstein's Monster. Why?"

"You know what Gay means don't you?"

"Yes. It means you're a boy that likes kissing other boys. Like daddy."

"Yes." John felt himself starting to blush. He took a deep breath. He was a doctor. He could explain a sanitized version of the facts of life to his not-quite nephew. "Like Daddy. And because daddy doesn't like kissing girls it makes it difficult for him to make a baby with a lady in the normal way."

"Why?"

"It just does. I'm a doctor you'll just have to take my word for it." Nicky pulled a Sherlock face.

"I still don't understand why they wanted me." Charlie patted Nicky on the knee and dribbled sympathetically.

"They wanted you because..."

"Because everything we love dies. But love doesn't." Sherlock smiled from the doorway. "Sometimes no matter how much we try to ignore it and pretend it doesn't matter and we don't care, The Earth carries on revolving around the sun."

The kitchen was silent, except for the slight rumble of the cat's breathing.


End file.
